My cypress

Gina Lacayo
Nov 5
4 min read

Updated: Nov 6

On Saturday, I returned to Hellman Hollow, the eastern part of Golden Gate Park. I delight in contemplating my tree, a towering Monterey cypress native to California, whose broad, spreading branches support its abundant foliage like a good juggler.

It is very tall. I love its thick trunk, widened at the base, and the dense, conical crown. Its reddish, cracked bark looks like it has been hand-painted, with streaks in different shades of brown, beige, black, and yellow. Its composition is balanced, with no extra or missing branches. From the branches hangs a delicate Spanish moss like the weeping willows of Savannah; depending on the angle, it looks energetic or melancholic. It stands alone in the vast hollow as if it had wished to grow away from its siblings.

I saw the cypress for the first time in 2009, one afternoon when Ricardo took me for a bike ride, and we sat on a small hill in front of it. Its size and the contrast of the dark green leaves against a flawlessly blue sky struck me. Since then, we say it is our tree.

Two weeks ago, I went to Hellman Hollow to take advantage of the unexpected June sunshine in San Francisco. Three girls, dressed in the city’s signature mix of styles, caught my eye. Each outfit a vivid reminder of San Francisco’s eclectic charm. One wore sandals and long, colorful bohemian pants; another, a crop top and light blue flared jeans reminiscent of the ’70s; and the last, an ankle-length printed ensemble. When COVID hit, people moved their gatherings to the parks, and the girls danced in front of my tree, as if in a mystical ceremony. They looked happy, focused on the rhythms of the drums. I looked at them with nostalgia and joy.

That day is engraved in my memory. The scene opened a sacred channel of communication between my roots in San Francisco and Nicaragua. I imagine myself sinking my feet into the earth, a vital energy connecting me to the cypress. I can also feel my mother's feet supporting my spine along with those of my father, my siblings, my cousins, and my friends, all standing with me.

My cypress is all of us. It is the millions who dramatically stopped breathing, victims of the pandemic, and those of us who continue to remember them, fighting against this disease, that robs us of oxygen as our species robs the planet of it.

I inhale and notice the beats of my heart that are the same as my tree, majestic as nature itself. I knew it; she is gracious and will let us embrace her again as I embrace the ypress. I had not done so before. Several times, I was about to ask Google, "How to hug a tree?" and I would answer, "Hugging it."

Finally, I did it. I was planning to go alone, but on Saturday at noon, my kids asked me where I was going. When I told them, "To the park to see a tree," they joined the adventure. They packed their backpacks as if they were on an expedition. I took my bag filled with notebooks, pens, and a picnic blanket. On the way, I told them the story of the tree.

We arrived and settled under its shade. As if knowing my intention, Giuliano begins to climb the trunk. He stops at one of its landings and hugs it. I do the same. I rest the tips of my shoes on its knots and huddle, and I rub its sunken crevices. Giuliano says he can hear the heart of the wood, and I imitate him; I bring my face closer and perceive a sound.

I feel its dry, flaky bark. I am surprised by the ease with which this giant allows itself to be caressed; in return, its knots offer support and stability. Embracing its corpulence, it is impossible to fall. It attracts me like a magnet.

I descend slowly, not wanting to pull away. Some of its skin has stuck to mine.

Observing its ramifications, I understand that my mind is like the trunk: from there, branches and buds sprout, with multiple paths that lead to the intended destination and others that invite you to get lost, like the Muni map that crosses this city.

My cypress is a lighthouse and a receiving antenna. It absorbs the magic of the universe and returns it as energy, while its leaves dance to a waltz so slow they barely sway.

In a spontaneous ritual, as romantic and affectionate as Ricardo, Felipe arranges tiny daisies in the crevices of the base, and Giuliano excitedly declares, "Mom, our tree is infinite."

We pack up the picnic and set off. I turn around and go back for one more hug.