There once stood this beautiful, isolated tree in our neighbourhood. It had a short, squat trunk, but near the top its limbs stretched sideways, as if
it were gripping the air on either side with elasticized arms. We
called it ‘the African Tree’, because it resembled an acacia and grew in
the middle of a fluttering field of grass. I pictured a drowsy lion
sprawled under its branches, slapping flies away from its tawny chest with a
flick of its tail. I imagined buzzards peering through the leaves with
greedy glares and giraffes tearing off tender shoots.
I never knew what species of tree it was. I never captured it on
film. It didn't cross my mind to pluck it from the air and keep a record of its existence. It was simply there every day, a vital part of our daily commute, a constant, a comfort. One day,
as I wandered past, I saw a bald spot in the field and a pile of
shredded wood on the ground. Tree-munchers, tree harvesters had chewed,
chopped, obliterated our African Tree.
Now bland, block-like townhouses stand in its stead. Our little slice
of Africa is gone. Although the site where it stood is crowded, it
looks empty, hollow. A busy street to nowhere. I will always feel an
ache when I gaze at that spot, a feeling of separation and loss.
Solitary, resilient, and strangely misplaced, that tree belonged in a
lonely Canadian field. A bold splash of colour to a dull day; a smile
that shouldn’t exist; and a reminder that no matter how tangled and
trapped we feel, we can always step out on a safari.
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