the trees you grew up with have not forgotten you
a farewell
The trees you grew up with have not forgotten you— their branches still whisper your name in the breeze, calling to the person they watched blossom beneath their shade. Their leaves murmur secrets of the past, stirring memories you thought were long buried. Their roots remember the paths your feet once traced, each step weaving a thread into the tapestry of their silent history. They hold the echoes of your laughter, the weight of your sorrows, the rhythm of your racing heart as you dreamed of futures unknown. They anchored themselves to the soil of your life, standing quietly as you stumbled, dreamed, and grew. They were there as you learned the world, and they remain now—witnesses to the person you’ve become. Time may have changed you, carving new roads into your heart and weathering your edges, but to them you’re still the same. You are the child who once climbed their limbs, the dreamer who rested beneath their shade. A part of their story is written in the rings of their trunks, and they are forever etched in yours— a quiet bond neither time nor distance can erase. -Alex
At the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in Fremont, a yellow house sits underneath a grove of redwood trees. Its windows face east; every morning it watches the rising sun climb over Mission Peak and then spill out over the entire valley.
In 2005, my parents found this house and fell deeply in love. I remember sitting in my dad’s lap as they discussed house options, dreaming about how much fun I would have diving into the pool with my Polly Pockets, floating on my back on long summer days, looking up at the towering trees.
We moved in the next week.
I was just 8 years old. My little brother was 6. From that moment on, we played raucously in the backyard every chance we got. The minute we’d finished our homework, we dashed outside.
Our two redwood trees were the backdrop of every fantasy world we created. We lay underneath their shade, climbed up high in their branches, towering over rooftops. On a clear day, you could see all the way to San Francisco.
I spent thousands of twilights in this backyard. I’d watch the sun light up the branches, as if on fire, and then rise up level by level like a skyscraper until the last glow twinkled out at the top.
Even when I wasn’t outside with my trees, they were watching over me. My room faced out directly into their mass of leaves. They were there with me in the late afternoons, sun filtering through their branches as I sat alone in my room after school. They were there in the quiet late hours of the night when I cried over my first crush. They were there as I scribbled furiously in my journal, as I squinted helplessly at Calc formulas.
Today I am 28. As my parents complete their separation, they are selling the home and these trees to divide their assets.
The possibility of this had been looming over us for nearly 5 years, ever since my parents had their falling out. The divorce was long and messy. And then all of a sudden, it simply happened. My mom founder a realtor and a buyer in under 6 weeks.
I drove home from San Francisco when my mom told me that they were basically about to close the sale.
I got home and sat there in the backyard for what felt like an eternity. I felt the trees hold me, the way they had held me so gently for 20 years. The tears were slow at first, rolling down my cheeks. Tears of recognition, of gratitude. And then the sobs came fast and hard and heavy—a deep, cleansing grief.
How do you say goodbye to something like this?
How do you say goodbye to something so beautiful?
Thank you for holding me when I didn’t know how to hold myself.
Thank you for watching over me nearly every day for two decades.
I’m grateful that maybe another child will get to feel this love.
Thank you for teaching me so much about myself. Thank you for raising me.
I love you.
