This Centurion tree stood guard at the entry gate to a villa in Cordignano. I was driving through the town on my way home and saw the bleached stalwart and had to stop. While I was taking its photograph, I started seeing its gaping mouth and misaligned eyes. Slowly, into my mind crept the reason why it was there and what it had seen during its watch.
I recognize that I am probably deluding myself in believing that the stories I come up with are from the tree but it makes me enjoy them all the more.
My Father’s memories are locked in the stories he shared with me. They are highlights of how he felt his life had meaning. By visiting the towns where his adventures took place I engaged his life and spirit. And like the stories in this tree, I opened myself up to his stories, enjoying them all the more.
In addition, it was sharing these photographs with my Father that made our relationship grow. Be it that his stories shed their embellishment when confronted with the facts in my photographs or that my interest in hearing them now made their embellishment less grating to me, I will never know, but the result was that the stories now interested me and my relationship with my Father blossomed.
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