We went to the park on the river where the sun shone brightly through drifting clouds and birds sang and the wind blew hard and chilly up from the bay through old rushes and new leaves.

He biked and I walked and looked and tried to see, really see. And gnarly tree roots opened a door as I walked in the woods.

As the memory door swung open, first I heard the faint chatter and laughter of children at play in the long ago of my first elementary school. The sound grew louder and then I saw the trees. Part of the school yard was shaded by enormous trees with great gnarled roots worn smooth by the countless leather soled feet of children enjoying the simple challenge of stretching and balancing from one to another of the sturdy tree feet. And I remember the feel of rough bark and slipping and sliding in the trying… and smiling nuns with winged white bonnets turning jump ropes and teaching hop-scotch with worn-out heels begged from the shoe repairman down the street…

This tree has years to grow and I wonder if children will hug it and play among the roots, I hope so. Trees can hold the keys to such satisfying memories.