Far off in the distance a tree stood out in the open. A handful of its orange leaves waved at us across the gap and I told Mama I had never seen such a strange sight as autumn leaves in the summertime.
“The world is filled with many strange things. So many that you couldn’t count them all even if you wanted to. But its not the knowing of everything there is in the world so much as it is the imagining of everything there could be,” said Mama. I wasn’t sure I knew what she meant but her words seemed to bring me comfort.
By the roadside in East Dalhousie, a locust tree stands rooted deep into the ground. A spring breeze scatters its scent into the air leaving behind a thin, sweet trail. I resist the urge to run my fingers across its textured bark. Forty-nine years and I have yet to feel it beneath my fingertips. I don’t know why that it.
Kitchen knives and pieces of broken glass were tied around the trunk of that locust tree to protect it from feasting porcupines that frequented its branches at night. What a strange sight it seemed to me as a child.
Despite the owner’s fear the locust tree flourishes today, bigger and greener than ever before having outlived the owner who is no longer around to protect it. Written words are like that locust tree—- rooted deeply and continuing on long after we are gone.