THE LABYRINTH OF LIFE

I opened my eyes to an old walnut tree which I remember even now as one of my favourite playgrounds. This walnut tree had some old, thick, branches, which one could almost climb on his feet, without steadying himself with the hands. We, Stefan Pusca’s children, would spend our spare days playing hide and seek and even tag in it, as this tree, with its centennial appearance, was lenient enough to our innocent games. We were not afraid of heights, and our parents, seeing us climbed up on its branches, would make do with just giving us a warning: “Be careful with that walnut tree because sometimes, in the chinks of its bark hide rainwaters which may turn it slippery and dangerous if you don’t pay attention (…),” either mother or father would tell us, fidgeting around the yard, with their daily chores.