The Same Tree

Words by Karis Delgado

One of my favorite trees is the willow tree in the community garden, 6/15 Green, in South Slope. Sometimes I find myself wandering there by accident without really deciding to. I remember the route, but sometimes it feels like my body leads me there. When I walk down 6th Avenue and approach the intersection at 15th Street, I can see the willow before reaching the corner. 

There it is.

The tree is as tall as the buildings. Her branches soar high, while the fluffy green leaves sweep low over the sidewalks, extending past the iron fence. There’s a collection of benches and chairs for neighbors to rest under the shaded canopy. I love to sit on the benches closer to the trunk, looking up to admire her beauty and absorb the serenity. I can’t remember exactly when I first stumbled upon the willow tree, but I remember the magic I felt. 

The willow was planted in 1996 and turns thirty this year. The gardeners say her name is Nushemakw, which they translate from Lenape as “mother tree.” The Lenape called their homeland, which included present day New York City, Lenapehoking. It is interesting that her name translates to mother tree, as I come to her often to seek comfort and guidance. I have always felt a maternal connection to her that has been hard to put into words.

In 2024, the Parks Department designated her as one of New York City's Great Trees. I moved into the neighborhood in 2024, and she became one of the greatest trees in my memory too. I didn’t know this fact then, but I remember it now. 

Nushemakw has another name too: the weeping willow, Salix babylonica. 

The scientific name comes from a misunderstanding. Babylonica means “of Babylon,” but the tree is native to northern China and likely traveled west along ancient trade routes. Carl Linnaeus, an 18th-century Swedish biologist, gave the tree the name babylonica based on his interpretation of the trees described along the rivers of Babylon in the Bible. Even the trees described in the biblical passage are interpreted differently. Some botanists identify them as Euphrates poplars, while others suggest they are white willows. Something shifted in that translation, but something remained too. The name continues to hold Linnaeus’ interpretation, even after the tree was understood differently. I think memory can function in a similar way. 

I once only knew her as the willow in my neighborhood. Before I knew her name, she was just the tree I went to. Before I knew her age, I imagined she had been there much longer. Now, when I visit, I see all those versions blurred into one.

I wonder how many versions of this willow tree exist in other people's memories. The people in the community who planted her. The neighbors who see her change with the seasons from their kitchen windows. The children running around the garden after school, who might remember the tree as much bigger. Someone might walk past while looking down at their phone and not notice her at all. 

We could all describe the willow tree from memory, and it would be the same tree, but each version would sound different based on how we remember it. Like a translation, she might take on a different meaning while her original form is still recognizable. I don't know which version is the most accurate. Even my own memories of her feel slightly different each time I visit. Maybe I remember her as fuller and swaying more in the summer, or her leaves as a bit more yellow and sparse in the fall. It’s hard to remember just how bare she gets in the winter. The version I remember may change, but my body still knows the way back.