By Julie Blaho

The city garden is my entire world. Just a patch of soil enclosed by four brick walls, the surrounding buildings with inscrutable windows, and a square of small sky. Under damp clouds that hold the smog hostage, I wearily bow my crown.

The familiar squeak of rusty wheels brings a flutter to my leaves as the shopping-cart-lady hobbles through the archway in her mismatched shoes. Occasionally, when her forehead glistens in the heat, she’ll rest in my shade. But today the sun hides its face, and she doesn’t stop to visit. Solitude bends me to the ground. A century ago, when I was just a hackberry sapling, I lost my family to the growing city.

It is whispered others fare better. I hear it on the breath of dying leaves carried from afar, who claim the knowledge comes from chestnut trees. The air rustles with rumors of emerald fields and bees buzzing among linden branches. Of a thousand families standing tangled together, filled with chirping symphonies and the fragrance of pine. The images are undeniable; my ancestor’s memories tingle through my roots. By nature I am slow to anger, but sorrow is carved into my bark.

Wind shudders over me and rips away my summer cloak. A man strides into the courtyard, his gaze fixed on his phone. My leaves swirl about him in invitation. If only I could sweep him closer. He glances up and halts, turns on his heel, and is gone. I have much to share, but not even the mangy cat comes to push its claws into my trunk.

When the city was young, people picnicked beside me and gathered my berries, discussing recipes for hackberry jam. In the evenings, couples would kiss, and together we’d ponder the heavens. Now, streetlights obscure the stars that once sparkled. Blaring horns intrude on my retrospection and bring me back to the gloom.

My branches droop with lethargy until pounding footsteps rouse me. Laughter bursts into my forgotten corner as two figures dash beneath me. Zigzagging like butterflies, the boys play a game of chase. The smaller one is almost caught, but he throws his arms around me and hugs my knobby bark.

“Safe!” he shouts. “I’m safe.”

At his touch, a thrill shivers to my heartwood. The children lean against me to catch their breath, then gather my pale-yellow leaves into a pile, their voices flittering like birds. They each grasp a branch, and I hold their weight as they climb. Small bodies snuggle in a crook, legs swinging in rhythm. I welcome their warmth, the giggles, and the tap, tap of heels on my trunk. Delight flows through ancient limbs, once hollow with pain.

“One, two, THREEEE.” The boys fly from my embrace to land below, bouncing amid my autumn colors. Lying on their backs, smiles shine up through my outstretched branches, and I bathe in the glow. I have no need of the sun today.