The Leslie Tree

There is a tree in my yard named Leslie.

She has been there for years, and until this week, I don’t think I ever understood how much her story and mine had become intertwined.

We rescued her when she wasn’t doing well. She was struggling, and we weren’t sure she was going to make it.

But she did.

Somewhere along the way, we started calling her the Leslie Tree, sort of as a joke.

Years later, when I was going through chemotherapy, my hair began to fall out.

My naturally curly hair had always been such a part of me. As my scalp became tender and my hair started falling out, I would sit outside and gently comb through my curls.

I wished I had beautiful long hair that I could cut off and donate to someone who needed a wig, but I never had that kind of hair. So I started thinking about what I could do with what I did have.

I tucked my curls into the branches of the Leslie Tree, a tree that was always filled with birds. I imagined them finding my curls and carrying them away to build their nests. Maybe my hair could become something soft for a baby bird to rest on.

It was such a small thing, but it brought me comfort.

I hadn’t thought about the history of that tree in a long time.

Then I sat down to write about her this week.

And it dawned on me.

The little tree we weren’t sure would survive became the place I carried something I was losing.

She held my curls while I was learning to let them go.

And all these years later, she’s still standing.

And six years later, so am I.

I think I’ll look at the Leslie Tree a little differently now. ❤️