University and 70th

I live on the corner of University Avenue and 70th Street. 1

When I was just a small growing thing, the streets were lines of dirt gauged with wheel lines, evidence of where people were going and where people have been. I lived on this very spot when more migrated into the town. And I still lived here when even more people arrived, making this town a city. 2

I lived here when the people began to pound and drill, when they covered the streets in smelly black tar, when they made the white sidewalks, when they put poles and lights and signs and rules. I was here when the large hunks of metal and rubber and plastic began zooming past in coordinated hordes. I lived here long enough to taste the change in the air—it isn’t as sweet as it used to be. 3

Like anyone else living in this city, I go largely unnoticed. Only a few cross my path, only a few have really seen me even though I’ve been living here longer than they have been alive. When the people came, I began to hate them. 4

I called them intruders. I called them killers. I called them blind, unfeeling heathens that came in masses to change the world, as if it was theirs to meddle with. As if every single grain of dirt beneath their feet was not half as precious as they were. But it is. The dirt has been here even longer than I have, and it is wise, and it is great.5

But very few of the people ever knew this. I saw them as they came to this world, as they grew, and when they left, and never did they show a care for the things that really mattered: respect of life, of roots, of experiencing earth. And then one came to me, and she taught me otherwise. She taught me love.6

She would come and sit beside my ancient, gnarled form, and she would read. Her voice vibrated with her kindness, her patience, her wisdom. She could stay for hours, reading or writing or simply sitting there, being. With me.7

She wrote me words on large rocks and left them with me, one by one, carefully arranging them. It took months.8

“I have to find just the right rocks, and then I have to give them the right words, and then I have to place them in just the right spot. I’m sure you understand,” she told me. 9

I did, of course. I have nothing but patience. 10

When the last rock was placed on the ground, she stepped back and looked it over. And she read to me one last time:11

“Giver12

of13

life,14

history15

in16

its17

roots,18

love19

in20

its21

up-22

reaching23

branches,24

and 25

hope26

in27

its28

leaves:29

Tree.”30

People came and went. They sat in my shade. They admired the rocks. Some left more there, some took pictures, some took a rock as a souvenir. And I stayed there where I have always been, a random, towering tree on the corner of University and 70th, with my roots buried deep underneath the streets.31