In snowbound, voiceless, mountain depths, to herald spring, pine trees sound in tune. - Princess Shikishi

At the back of our house, in our neighbor's yard, there lives a large evergreen tree.  It is the dominant view from the windows of both my craft room and our bedroom.  It's a place of refuge and source of food for several bird species and the occasional squirrel.  Its year-round forest green color is something of a balm to me whether the branches are swaying in a breeze, still and steadfast, covered with snow, or accompanying vibrancy to surrounding leafed out trees.  It is tall and strong and constant.

While watching Black-capped Chickadees fly in, out, and around this tree a few days ago, a strong memory from my childhood came to mind.  From first through eighth grade, my family lived in an Italianate style building with four flats and a large shared yard.  There were blackberry bushes intertwined with the rusty fence, a lawn divided by a concrete path, and a huge pine tree in this yard.  At some point in my childhood, I inherited a snowmobile suit from an older cousin.  Because it was so warm and toasty inside that suit, I could spend hours outside in the snow.  I recall clearly how one winter the snow had fallen and begun to melt around this pine tree in such a way that it created a perfect icy bowl, ideal for jumping on my plastic sled (literally a sheet of plastic with a handle at one end) and circling around the tree a few times before slowing at the base of the trunk.  It was similar, I guess, to how water drains from a sink.  Round and round until it disappears, but in this case I simply would come to a stop and stare up at the tree before getting up to do it again.  I loved this!  I had discovered the best way to amuse myself and sled in what was essentially a flat yard and stay warm while doing it!  I can almost hear the sound of the plastic as it glided and scraped over the somewhat crunchy snow, feel how my fingers held on tight to the plastic handle through my chunky mittens, remember fully how gleeful the movement felt.  

My older sister tells me that I remember everything, and I think it's because I can sometimes recall things in detail that she doesn't remember at all.  That goes both ways, however.  I know that I too have gaping holes in my memory, the specifics of place and time forgotten - as happens to all of us with age.  Perhaps a lot of these memories are just latent, awaiting a spark to rekindle the echo of an experience.  Like how a pine tree that lives behind the house where I currently reside in Alaska could bring to the surface a vivid memory of a pine tree behind a house where I lived for the better part of the 1980s in upstate New York.  Fascinating how the mind works.