The mango tree in front of our house was never big. It was small, weak, and only gave us about six mangos a year. Planted in a small spot surrounded by concrete, it never had the chance to grow as big, lush, and fruitful as the other mango trees on our street. My parents planted it almost 20 years ago when they moved into the house with my older brother, who was just a baby then. Despite the tree’s size, I thought it was the prettiest tree on our street. I would spend time climbing its short branches, pretending they were tall and strong. I would sit under it with my brother, watching the ants sharing food, surrounding the tree.

It provided shelter for me during the summer, and although it didn’t produce a lot of mangos, they were the sweetest and most flavorful I’ve ever tasted. As a junior in high school, looking back, I realize that our mango tree has been there for me through all stages of my life. I pass by the tree every day, but I don’t stop to admire it or sit under it like I used to. Even though I don’t spend as much time with it as I did when I was younger, it has always been comforting to know that the tree watched me leave and waited for me to return home. It was stable and reassuring, and at the end of the day, I always knew it would be there for me.

Today, my dad left to get a chainsaw. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but looking back, I wish I had stopped him. When he came home and said, “Time to cut the tree down,” it took me by surprise. My mom and dad had always discussed the possibility of removing it, but I never thought it would happen. I went to take a photo of the tree and then went back inside. Walking back to my room, I started to tear up. “Why do I care? It’s just a tree,” I thought to myself. I shut the door and looked outside my window at the tree before me. What I once saw as powerful and tall now seemed weak and short. Then, I began to think of all the fond memories I have of the tree and how it has been the one thing that has always stayed the same. My home, backyard, and room all look different from what I once knew. My family looks older, my uniforms are getting bigger, and my childhood dog has more white hair and less energy than he once had.

It all hit me at that moment. This is my last remaining childhood memory. I ran outside and tried to convince my dad to let the tree stay there. “It never gives us mangos, its roots are too long, we don’t want it damaging the foundation, and we can plant new, pretty banana trees in that spot,” he said. At that moment, I started crying and couldn’t stop. He was being reasonable, and my mom had wanted it down for a long time.

I returned to my room and watched him start chopping the small branches off one by one, hitting the floor with force. I couldn’t watch anymore, so I closed my curtains and thought about all the times I’d eat the sweet mangos that the tree grew with my brother, under the tree, enjoying every bite while we talked about our day. I started to hear my dad starting the chainsaw, and the loud hit to the tree, then another, then another. The tree resisted with every blow. After what felt like forever, my childhood tree was reduced to a stub. All the mangos I ate from it, the time spent under the tree, was gone for good. Those childhood moments are now a part of my past, and I hope to remember them when I get old, so I can tell my grandkids about the pretty mango tree that kept me company all those years.