Zig zagging shimmering, golden jewelry vertically laces the ridges of the rich brown. The sun’s gold reaches the wide skinny branches. The tree holds so many people’s secrets that the ridges reflect its knowledge seeping from the inside out. Layers and layers of bark come together to make the tree stand tall. Alone it stands, in the soil with open arms. There are trees across the meadow, but they are separate. The same, but separate. As the bark moves upwards, branches begin to jut out from each side. The branches support the dark green triangular leaves. Their shape is soft but pointed. Their color is dark but with tints of a soft, sleepy green. They are strong but slowly worn down by the holes left by bugs. Gracefully alone, ready to embrace, the tree waits. 

In Sheep’s Meadow, a large plain of grass exists softly. In the corner, by the tall black metal fence, the tree stands, watching this slice of the park. In this corner, under the tree, a guitar strumming “Hey There Delilah” echoes from a man with a silver ponytail sitting in the middle of a picnic blanket surrounded by the aroma of morning dew. This dew swirls through the air to touch a Frisbee, flying with the birds. The tree watches it all.

The tree watches the sun rise in the morning and waits. The tree waits to greet my grandmother early in the afternoon, to provide her with shade from the glaring sun. My grandma stands in front of her tree with her long brown paintbrush reaching her white canvas. Every day for the last twenty-seven years, my grandma has come to this tree in Central Park to try to capture the angles of the branches through her paintings. She describes to me how the branches come together to make an angle that captures the whole park, framing all that she is watching. Every time I see her, she tries to explain this to me. I still cannot see it. 

I sit as she stands. I paint the tree in purple onto one of her sketchpads. I am transported back to being six with my bouncy curls hugging my face as I am lectured about how the roots matter more than what is visible on the tree. For a while I did draw the roots to be visible, as she taught me. But now, I only paint what is above ground.

I no longer need to explicitly paint the roots. 

“Maisie! Do you see the baby?” my grandma asks.

The silence we were in has broken and my grandma has put down her paintbrush. She crouches in front of the tree as a baby and mother squirrel run over her painting toward her. She begins to throw nuts down to them. Her lips scrunched, she makes kissy noises to communicate with the squirrels.

She chuckles and tells me, “Sometimes they go in my purse.”

*  *  * 

Purses hang from every corner. A little golden statue of cupid holds one pink and one black purse. Mirrors line the walls reflecting the cupid to make him echo throughout the room. Hats, shoes, dresses, oh so many dresses. With her silver hair falling just below her chin, she leans toward the silver magnifying mirror to decorate her lips with her silver tube of red lipstick.

“Grandma, do you think this dress is too short?” I ask.

“I think it should be shorter,” my grandma says.

My laughter meets hers somewhere between the coats and I feel at ease. I go to tell my mother that my grandma approves of the dress.  

*  *  * 

The tree watches and waits. The tree has stood for years protecting my grandma as she has protected me. Layers of the tree hold the stories of the world—my grandma’s world, my world, and the worlds of the women to follow in our footsteps. The all-knowing elm by our side as we make strides— wearing shorter dresses, and making noise. It has watched as the world has changed. My grandma has watched and waited for me to grow up and become confident in my being a woman. In sleepy corners trees stand and watch and wait as the world grows up.