I moved to the Seattle area in the summer of 1999 for my first marketing job as a writer for Nordstrom. I knew no one in the city when I got here and like any new space, I enjoyed learning about my surroundings and discovering hidden treasures for the first few years after arrival.
In those early days I lived in a woodsy apartment complex in the Northern suburb of Shoreline. A nature trail literally ran through the property, and just down the street was a city park and recreation center where I took various dance and fitness classes. I walked to nearly everything I did: to the bus stop to go to work; to the movie theater that was nearby; to the grocery store that existed back then.
My dentist was only two blocks from my front door and I loved walking over to his office because each time I did, I passed my favorite tree. The first time I noticed it was in the fall, on a blustery, rainy day. It was a burst of red and yellow swaying in the mist as I hurried down the hill. On my way back, the rain had let up so I took a better look from across the street and marveled at how many hues it had, while the trees near it were one solid color (still green or completely red). I vowed to come back and snap a photo when the weather was better. And I did—every year thereafter.
I moved into a house away from this neighborhood just over a decade later, but made a ritual of returning annually, usually the week prior to Halloween, to capture this beautiful tree during its most gorgeous autumn peak.
It became a place of solace too. The photo above was taken in October of 2006, when I was still enduring the pain of the worst breakup I ever had. I remember walking up and down the hill, going across the street, taking as many shots as I could of this natural wonder so i could remain in the peace of its space. Just standing there so vibrant, it was a comfort.
In 2015, as seen here, I lingered because I was contemplating the upcoming holidays without my Dad (he passed earlier that year). I walked back and forth, thinking about the reliability of this tree to be here for me in ways even family couldn’t.
Last year, my stroll around the tree was a therapy session, as my position had been eliminated at work and I was promising myself I wouldn’t take another soul-sucking corporate job; I would find something with purpose if it killed me. As I scrambled to cram all of my medical appointments in before my health insurance expired at the end of the month, I also got a flu shot that day . But I wish I’d spent more time with “my” tree before I did.
Today I woke up in a bad way, only a few hours after laying down to pings on my phone. After two cups of coffee and completing the task that those pings were about, I decided to set out for some fresh air to shake off my bad vibe.
I went first to walk the (outdoor) Scarecrow Festival in Edmonds, which was a welcome sight, and then to pick up some groceries. Because it was so sunny outside, and I still wasn’t emotionally feeling 100%, I decided to detour to visit my favorite tree and snap the annual photo.
I nearly crashed my car.
I pulled over across the street, where I normally leave my vehicle each year, but when I got out, I had to look twice at what street I was on … because there was no tree!
I got a lump in my throat, my heart began pounding and tears welled up in my eyes.
It was gone. And there were new, different types of trees along the fence that weren’t there last year, but my tree—the tree that has been my constant comfort for over 20 years, heard my cries and prayers and joy—was no longer.
I walked back to my car in disbelief, audibly cursed the wrath of 2020 and burst into tears.
I hope it wasn’t sick. I hope it didn’t suffer. I hope whoever did this had a damned good reason for doing so.
I collected myself and took one last look at the hollow space before driving home, thinking to myself something I’ve honestly been thinking a while … “There’s nothing keeping me here anymore.”
