What a whining shortsighted child we see, who is so enamored of lost memories that he fails to see and enjoy the new day, new life and new friends. Things have never remained as they were, nor should they. For only in the grave do things remain the same.
As the old tree dies, from it's decomposing form springs the new life of flowers and vines. Then a sapling grows in the love of the sun to flourish and mature as a new tree, different from it's parent, but of the same form and type. And it too, in the way of things, grows old. Throughout, the forest remains.