Our Favorite Tree

One day, while walking our dog Riley, Robert said, without any prompting, “This is my favorite tree.”

It stood in front of a neighbor’s house on our regular walking path. A man about our age happened to be visiting his aunt who lived there, and we struck up a conversation.

The tree is a towering giant, even among the tall trees that have stood in our neighborhood for generations. It has thick grooves of bark, with branches that nearly overhang the entire street.

It has a large knot at eye level that has probably been there since well before even I was born. And even the tallest person we know couldn’t wrap their arms around it if they were to hug its trunk.

The visiting neighbor smiled, probably thinking of his own memories of childhood, and said to Robert, “For sure, little man. Every kid needs a favorite tree.”

And I added—with an unexpected nostalgia, given how little time I spent outside growing up—“They sure do. And you picked a good one.”

This happened years ago, probably when Robert was three or four—just old enough to walk, but still young enough to spend part of a long walk in a stroller.

And yet, I still think of this moment often—even on days when we don’t pass the tree with Riley, and I’m just reflecting on how much our sons have grown.

Maybe I remember it because I never had a favorite tree and it comforts me that he does.

Growing up, I didn’t live in a neighborhood with many old trees, and I didn’t spend extended periods of time outside. I was always at dance rehearsal or watching TV, I guess.

I was discouraged from climbing trees at the park; I’d been taught early on that climbing was dangerous. And I was without a sibling to egg me on, pushing out of my seriousness and into an adventure, let alone into the limbs of a good climbing tree.

So now, Robert’s favorite tree is mine, too.

I’m glad it wasn’t too late for me to have one. I’m grateful that childhood wasn’t entirely lost to the business of growing up.

And I’m grateful Robyn knows how to guide me toward what a childhood ought to look like—with play, with wasted time, and with real time outdoors.

“Let’s let them be kids a little longer,” she gently reminds me of how little they still are.

Years later, our walks have changed.

Now we have kids on scooters and bikes, and sometimes they’re the ones holding Riley’s leash.

But even after all these years, I still give the tree a gentle tap as I walk by.

It’s the only way I know how to say thank you.

I’m grateful to it—for what it symbolizes and what it has given me: a childhood lost, then found, then regifted through my sons.