I want to tell you a story

Where I grew up, the trees had leaves and no needles.  There were evergreen and didn’t turn gold or red.  Their leaves dropped off although you never seemed to notice.  There was no autumn and no winter, only wet or dry.  

Where I grew up, autumn and winter only existed in songs and they were always sad.  Those were our love songs, to speak about goodbyes and unfulfilled promises.

In Australia, the trees were also evergreen and the poplars turned yellow in the fall.  All other colorful ones were immigrants and imported to remind people of England and other parts of the world.

The deciduous trees in Wisconsin were not very tall because the summer was so short, but they turned gold and red.  Just like in Virginia, but in the East, yellow poplars, oak and maple trees towered over our neighborhood.

My area now has colorful trees, but without the Chinese pistachio, we may not have autumn at all.

Where I grew up, I dreamed of colorful trees.  Little did I know, they speak of goodbyes and unfulfilled promises.