Standing Witness---a tree

 

 Summer 2022
The tree, once vibrant and green,
A shelter from the too-bright sun,
The umbrella to many shaded reading hours,
With the strength to hold small boys below.

Trimmed branches became the forbidden fruit of invasive stranglers
That suck the lifesoul,
Diminishing the tree,
Weakening its strength.

So that when the too bitter cold for too many days
(during SNOVID/Sno-pocalypse 2021)
smothers the fresh buds too eager for spring weather,
The tree experiences Raynaud's disease,
Sap constricting, flowing to the trunk, leaving branches vulnerable
To lack of life, lack of love, lack of warmth.

Reaching out with its black-brown fingers toward the sky,
No life flows within.

Death.
Collapse.
Decay.
Loss.


There is no service for a dead tree.
No granite marker commemorating its service, its life.
No Psalm 23.
No line of mourners.
There was me—and only me.
I was not in a black dress and heels.

What sadness to mark the death of a tree that was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the destruction of time, of cold, of lack of warmth.

I bore witness to the death of the tree,
Wearing shorts and a tank top, sneakers and socks,
With tree trimmer, pole saw, chain saw, ladder, wood chipper, and  clippers,
With buckets of energy, gallons of muscle strength, and a lot of sweat,
With curses of frustration and tears of grief and so much love,
I slowly trimmed the dead from the tree.
I placed the limbs into the wood chipper, and from the chewing and cutting and grinding
emerged the tiny chunks of oak to nurture other botanical brothers and sisters.
I loved on the tree the only way I knew how—-
By honoring its contribution to me by caring for it in its last moments.

Summer 2023
What sadness to mark the death of a person who once was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the deterioration of a person due to time, lack of warmth, lack of acceptance, lack of love.

I stand witness to those I have loved,
Those whose bodies gave way before it was time,
Those whose life purposes were cut short by tragedies,
Those who have carried hurt and loss,
Those with heavy secrets that were too much to bear,
Those whose depression and anxieties smothered the lifesoul,
Those who experienced the coldness of the desperation felt by Raynaud’s disease.

I stand witness the best way I know how,
by
Getting up each morning, dressing, calling others, reaching out to those around me,
Learning and reading, asking questions and challenging the preconceptions I had,
Growing and exploring and daring to try new things,
Grading and driving and cleaning and cooking and mowing and texting and shopping,
Laughing and loving and giggling and cheering.

I honor those I have loved
By continuing on,
By pushing forward,
By recycling the hurt and ache in my bones and heart, the loneliness that overwhelms, the questions that circle in my brain,
By recycling the dead growth in the wood chipper,
By refusing to give up.

I can love on my loved ones of the past the only way I know how—
By honoring their contribution to me by caring for others—and caring for me.