The Park, episod 3. The Tree and the soldier

The floor is covered with pieces of bark, giving this part of the park a unique appearance. Here there is no grass: just a carpet made of plant fragments and some large pines. Nearby, there is an outdoor concert which echoes we hear . Here, this Sunday, nobody comes with his picnic set, no child plays, no ball or Frisbee flies. In the middle of the park, there are trees that never stop growing. At the foot of each, a small brass plaque placed on a block of stone. It reads the dates of 1914-1918, almost erased, and below, totally illegible, worn by the time, are the names of young soldiers who died on the front of the other side of the ocean. As the trees grew inscriptions have gradually disappeared, one managed to protect the plates too late.
Suddenly, the trees become different from those of the park. They seem inhabited, the same way a large tree that overhangs the footpath where Lennon was murdered, now in its branches only the word “imagine”, inscribed on the ground, does bring some presence. Then, we think of the strange bond between the tree, death and writing; leaving the memorial, we look to the trunks of trees adjacent to the alley, searching for a heart engraved by some lovers. Just Love.