On Saturday, I returned to Hellman Hollow to visit my tree, a towering Monterey cypress standing alone in the field like a wise elder. Its bark, like hand-painted strokes of brown and gold, welcomed my touch. That day, it wasn’t just a tree. It became a bridge between San Francisco and Nicaragua, between memory and presence. As my children hugged its trunk and placed daisies in its roots, I felt it: Infinite. Alive. An anchor in time.