Personal Narrative Essay: My Favorite Place

My favorite place to be was under the canopy of my cherry blossom tree. It brings back a flood of memories and when I close my eyes it is like I'm sitting under it once again. Takes me back all the way back to my first home's backyard as if no time has gone by. Engraved at the back of my mind, a cascade of memories resurface that I have clinged on to for many years. I like to think that it has provided such a scope to the imagination.

I admired the tree in many ways. I used to hurry to the front of the house in the morning at the peak of dawn, and peer through the slats of my open blinds to see birds perched upon the branches. Glorious tunes of life and new beginnings spread through the air as they flittered their wings, built their nests and nourished their young. 

The vast sky turned dark and concentrated as the seconds elapsed; day turning to night and spring turning into summer. With each day the pale petals grew brighter — more vibrant and more alive — a pink so unexplainable and sickly sweet you could almost taste it. When I brought my first friend, Ishana to see the tree the blossoms were in full bloom. Her face lit up like a dozen fireflies ablaze. The tree had extended their branches out to us in friendship. We would spend time with the tree more often, and they became our friend too. We danced under them and built huts out of the towering sticks from the nearby forest, adorned with luscious blackberry bushes. Occasionally I saw them dance with us; petals escaped their branches weightlessly and waltzed gracefully in the wind. Time passed and we grew older (so did the tree) We still played under it occasionally, but she wasn’t forgotten.

The seasons brought about change in my tree. Time passed but their beauty never faltered. Her charm was preserved with the summer air. Days marched on. The warmness turned to winds and the crystalline sky with white clouds rearranged themselves into dull gray ones that brought rain. The summer gradually concluded in vibrant colors running away, getting ready for the birth of autumn. In a matter of weeks the tree’s glow colored brown in decay. Branches became fragile and soon wilted turning bare. Bitter winds wreaked havoc, slashing at their flesh yet still they stood sturdy throughout the compassionless torture. But this wasn’t the worst they had to endure. When winter came knocking at its trunk, all the world was silent; stillness; an inaudible change as the ground darkened with cold. Yet to me my tree looked warm. Surrounded in a fluffy blanket wrapped delicately and with care like a newborn child. This made me feel better, but I still felt pity and a sense of helplessness.

My mother always told me good things were always to come, and it had just arrived. The world started to feel warm again — more familiar. The tree had returned to its element. Elegant petals of pink bloomed with unmatched beauty. Ishana and I met once again and celebrated her budding triumph but we both knew that the fight was never truly going to be over. 

What amazed me most was how even when seasons changed, the tree continued its ongoing and everlasting cycle of life and death. Watching the world sped by was hard. Whilst it stood motionless, almost as if stuck in time, things that were once fresh and recent became obsolete over the course of the year. But the old cherry-blossom tree prevailed to be eternal and everlasting

I want and hope to be more like my tree — my inspiration, my first friend and my favourite place to be.