A month before my journey to my land of birth, I'm assailed with my childhood senses and fears.
I have had a longing to go frequently to Chinatown to smell the fish, to touch the writhing crabs, and sniff the random assortment of spices, ginger, gingko, curry, to step outside of the daily life in NYC.
The other night, while half awake, I remembered the old Acacia tree.
I felt the sense of another world, the fear and awe I had for that tree.
It was said that ghosts lived in the tree.
I used to play cautiously under the tree, never peeling it's bark and gently touching the
hundreds of vines wrapped around its trunk.
The grass was soft around the tree and it was a perfect spot for picnics.
But when the dusk sets in, the darkness as thick and tangible as the black paint,
consumes my senses and that darkness never fails to make me run back home safe under the
It was easy to believe that ghosts lived in that tree because at least once a month
a vehicle accident, mostly fatal, would occur a couple of yards away from the tree.