It is late October. The air around me is crisp and chilly, as dried leaves crunch beneath my feet. I make my way through the old city park passing children on the playground, and lovers hand in hand. I continue walking through the park. I know exactly where I should be. I see it, just there in the distance, just across the open land. I see the weeping willow. It was a magnificent tree. Tall and mighty, it stood strong against the others. It was a beautiful tree. It was our tree.

Three years prior, my uncle brought me to this tree. He was my father, my friend, my mentor and the one I could rely on the most. He was sick. He knew he was nearing the end of his life, so he brought me to this tree, hoping this small gesture would help get me through the years to come. We sat beneath the willow branches and watched as cloud upon cloud passed us by. He told me to remember that day, to remember the crisp autumn air, and the way the sun was shining just right on my face.

And I did. To this day I remember the warm of the sun dancing on my cheeks. He told me to come to this place when I felt lonely or scared, or even when I just wanted to talk and he would be there. This was our tree. It was deep in to the park, away from the crowd, away from the hustle and bustle of life. When I went to our tree, it was just my uncle and I, sitting there, watching the clouds.

This place became very special to me. I feel connected to this tree because I can remember my uncle and all of the good time we shared beneath the mighty tree's limbs. I can hear his voice and see his crooked smile. I know that he is with me always, but when I am here, I feel him with me. This is a beautiful tree. It is our tree.