Growing up, there was a special tree that I visited often when I was lonely, afraid or hurting. It stood proud and tall at the end of a small circular street park in the middle of West Park Avenue. Two streets down, the tree was a short walk from my home.

This tree was not special because it was perfect. In fact, the tree was horribly deformed, stretching at a ninety-degree angle over the adjacent street and over the top of the adjacent home. At night, the tree was a frightful sight, a black silhouette with long twisted limbs reaching for nearby homes on the opposite side of the street as if to pick them up as their residents slumbered in bed. During the day, the tree was visible for several blocks arching above cars as they traveled beneath its massive trunk.

Sitting at the base of the tree was unnerving, yet strangely comforting. The appearance of the trunk towering over my small frame and stretching upward into the sky was unforgettable. The idea that at any moment the tree might topple on top of me was always in my mind. Yet, I could relate to this tree that remained unmoved by elements that would destroy it. If the tree could stand for years despite the strain of a weighty crooked trunk, so could I. Under the tree, I felt small but powerful.

Decades later, I returned to West Park Avenue in search of my favorite tree only to find a vacant spot where the tree had once stood. I will likely never know whether the looming tree had become too much of a threat to resident life or if, perhaps, the tree had simply died from age and disease.

As an adult, I still look for misfit trees – ones that are damaged or misshaped. Like the tree featured in this post, they bear the battle scars of a life survived, one that is imperfect. And on hard days still, I remember, that life no matter how tough is always worth fighting for.