The Old Banyan Tree at the Alley Entrance

The old banyan tree at the alley entrance is the guardian of the entire street. Its branches stretch out in all directions, like a giant green umbrella, sheltering passersby from wind and rain. The aerial roots hang low, swaying gently in the breeze, like a grandfather's beard. When I was little, I always stopped to play under the tree after school. We played hopscotch among the gnarled roots and competed to find the most complete fallen leaves. Grandmas sat in the shade chatting, busy shelling peanuts, occasionally looking up and calling out, "Be careful!" The sound passed through the treetops and fell warmly into every child's ears. Later, I went away to study. Every time I returned home, seeing the banyan tree from afar meant I had arrived. It always stood there, silent and unmoving. The grandmas under the tree changed one after another, the children grew up and flew away, and then returned with their own children. The tree's rings quietly increased, and we grew up and grew old in its shadow. Some memories fade, but that dense shade remains as clear as yesterday. The old banyan tree is not just a tree; it's the coordinate of home, a vessel of time, holding all the tenderness of the street.