The Mother

 

“Hello, old friend,” I said. It had been 40 years since we parted ways.

I stood in the afternoon sun by the side of the road, with my outstretched hand softly touching her craggy bark. Her thick, green lower bows used to touch the ground and shelter me when I was eight and nine years old. I could vaguely make out the grey rounds in the bark where lower limbs had been severed long ago. I turned my face to the sky and saw her high needled branches, which now seemed so sparse that I barely recognized her. You’ve lost some branches too, she said. I smiled. Yes, I have.

Sometimes I brought friends here with me when I was a child and we told secrets in the shade of her bows. Once a couple boys came with us and told us terrible, terrible things.

“Girls bleed from their vaginas,” one of them said. All the girls gasped and exchanged looks of disgust and indignation.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re a virgin. That’s why you don’t know about it.”

“I’m not a virgin!” I recoiled in horror. I had no idea what a virgin was but it sounded bad.

Other times when I came to the tree, I was alone and curled up next to her trunk, refreshed by the piney scent of her soft balsam needles. I sometimes brought books and snacks, and I read stories to her. Sometimes I cried. It was safe to cry there.

Once I came and confided to her. I am not wanted, I said. I do not belong. Her branches rustled as she let out a deep sigh of grief. She held space as I shed my tears.

I lived a block away in a small duplex, but came to her once in the rain with a stash of food, intent on running away from home. To lean against her; solid, steady, rooted. No child, you must go back. As it turned out, my mother had the same idea. The very next year on a sunny day in July while my stepdad was at work, she packed up my little brother and me, along with most of the furniture, and we fled in my uncle’s truck. Far away, where my stepdad could not find us (or so I hoped). It was one of the happiest days of my childhood.

Now I stood before her, a 51 year old woman with craggy bark of my own. She asked me, What have you done, child?

Like you, I told her, I did not bear children from my boughs, but sheltered other people’s children. I tried to be solid and steady, like you showed me. I did not always succeed but I gave it my best.

Like you, I have had many branches pruned down to the bone. Parts of me that were once alive and thriving, sawed away and used as kindling to keep others warm.

Like you, many have come to seek shelter by my side. Told me secrets, leaned on me, and then one day just disappeared. Others come along on the wind. Some stay a while.

I did not get to say goodbye to you, old one. But I always remembered you. Perhaps the ones that did not say goodbye to me will remember me too.

In dark times, when I felt most alone after leaving my marriage, I found a family in the woods of my homeland. Large fir trees like you wouldn’t believe! Old and wise grandmothers that shielded me under their thick boughs. They gave me a sense of belonging when I lost my way, and helped me to remember who I was. I understood their language, spoken in soft, hushing whispers just like yours.

As long as there are trees, I will find my way back to myself.

Thank you, Mother. I will never forget you.

She let out a soft sigh of goodbye.