As our tree now sits all glittery and ornamented in a place of honor in our house, I think back to where it comes from. It’s nice to have a tree whose family you know, whose environs you remember. A placed tree, I guess you’d say.

I wonder if our tree carries within it any memory of that north-facing slope, or the faraway view of the Blue Ridge it had once — and lost. Now it looks serenely over our living room, and, if it turns its head a bit, the kitchen, too. It can also look out the windows and French doors, see other trees still rooted and attached to the ground that gave them life.

Well, if the tree can’t remember, I can. When I look at it I see a place where the land rolls and houses are tucked into the folds of it. I see a place where beauty is not forgotten.