The ash tree grew and we grew alongside it.

We moved in, unsure and newly married, when it was just an adolescent. Awkward and gangly, it needed support and encouragement, a stake to lean on, a wooden frame to keep it safe. Soon, though, it began to flourish all by itself, its bark a smooth, cool grey, with branches reaching out to claim its place in the world. Summers and winters passed and the ash tree grew strong and more certain of itself, with roots now anchored deep in the soil. It was the first thing I saw when I drew back the curtains each morning. Sometimes I would stare at it from the landing window for a small reassurance, because no matter the tangles and twists life threw our way, like church bells and birdsong, it was a reminder to myself that nothing really changes.

As the years passed, the tree became large enough to offer shelter from the heat. I would sit beneath it on summer afternoons, staring at the sky through a patchwork of leaves, Jeanie and her toys spread out on a blanket, listening for the sound of Derek’s car on the driveway. In colder months, it spared a circle of grass from the frost and the snow, and I waited there, stamping my feet and watching Ziggy draw patterns in the lawn with her nose. After it happened, when everything changed and the days became dark, the tree was a confidante, because when my thoughts became impossible to share with Derek, I would visit the tree and whisper them into the bark. There were times it seemed as though the tree whispered back. A magic high above my head, as a breeze wandered into its branches and made music with the leaves. It was a touchstone, almost, and I would press my palm into the smooth surface of its trunk and lean into it when the weight of my body became too much to carry.