My purple tree

I was in high school when I saw my purple tree for the first time. It was in the front yard of the house I moved to in Mexico City. I wasn’t amazed by the purple tree, maybe because at that age boys don’t wonder about trees. Of course I acknowledged the color purple of my tree, but I never understood how extraordinary and unique that was. I didn’t care about my tree at all. I never learned its name and, to be honest, I hated it.

People said my purple tree gave a great view and character not only to my house but also to the whole street, yet I never saw it. I hated my tree because I spent hours raking its fallen purple leaves without making a difference; as soon as I picked one leave two more had already fallen down. I constantly got calls from my supervisor because the front yard was always an incomplete job.

Considering that I wasn’t responsible for raking the leaves very often because my nineteen roommates and I rotated the house chores every week, I should not have made it a big a deal. But I did. All I saw of my tree were its purple leaves on the grass and the never ending work of raking them.

Many years later I have come to understand that that my tree was unique not because its color, but because it magnified anything around it; my tree was unique because it created beauty. I miss it. I would love to have it  back. I would love to rake its purple leaves on the grass. I would love to see people walking by and turning their heads towards my purple tree to admire its splendid appearance. I would love to see the beauty of my house raise because of its presence.

I have had many purple trees in my life. I hope I have gotten smarter enough to recognize them now.

My purple tree

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