Under the SycAMORe
By Sussy Santana
I was a twenty-year-old, single mother, when I moved to Providence from Washington Heights in 1998. My sister and I shared a third-floor apartment on Verndale Ave, just a few blocks away from Roger Williams Park.
Neither one of us knew how to drive, so we took the bus or walked everywhere. While we had a caring family, I was feeling lost trying to adapt to a new city.
On a particularly difficult day, I decided to take my baby, Luna, to the park. I pushed her stroller over the bumpy sidewalks, crossing the street, in front of the Museum of Natural History, into the generosity of the park and up the hill to the small red house, under the big tree.
I sat on the bench by the Betsy Williams Cottage. Overwhelmed with emotion, as Luna slept in her stroller, I started to cry. Did I make the right choice? Should I have stayed in New York? Was I being a good mom? Would I find a job?
I looked up as if trying to find answers, and stopped to notice the magnificent sycamore tree in front of the house. Its low front branches curved into an open embrace. Rays of light peeked through the leaves as they rustled softly. Suddenly, I felt welcomed. I was overcome by peace, I just knew everything was going to work out for us.
I have been in Providence for 26 years and I have gone back to that same spot many times, often when I need a reminder that everything is going to be alright. The sycamore tree gave me the hope I so desperately needed on that day, and I suddenly understood why the word amor made its way into its name.
