It stood alone, branches to the sky. It waited day by day for someone to notice it. It was one of many, but as was the case with all its brothers, they did notice.
Children climbed in its branches. Young lovers took shelter under its leaves, relaxing against its trunk for the stolen kiss. Old people would walk past, look up, and exclaim at how high it was now, remembering days gone by. Dogs would come and…well, they would do what dogs do.
It didn't mind. Each glance, each gesture was a treasure. It felt the sunlight, exulted in the rain, glistened in the moonlight and waited.
One couple came to the tree daily. They were neither young nor old. The tree was special to them because of all they had shared under its canopy. They first met when he helped her get a frisbee that was caught in branches and leaves. The red cheeks and downcast eyes when she thanked him told him what he wanted to hear--she had noticed. He had noticed, too, and the next day they came together--meeting under the tree as if drawn there by some strange energy that neither could explain.
It was under the tree that they had their first picnic together, under the tree that they shared the first kiss. When he decided to ask the question that would change their lives, of course he did it under the tree. She said yes, and at the wedding, bride and groom stood under the tree and said their vows while the couple's friends looked on, familiar with the story and smiling.
Years passed and the couple grew older. Children came and the lover's trysts became family gatherings, full of love and laughter and delight in the beauty of nature. The children didn't see what the couple saw, but they understood that for their parents, the tree was special. They looked at each other with the "you know how they are" look that children reserve for aging parents. But the request that they made took them by surprise.
"When we go, we want to be cremated, and we want our ashes to nourish our tree." The children weren't even sure it could be done. The parents didn't care whether it could or whether or couldn't. They wanted it done and it would be done. The children, by this time, were married themselves and understood the bonds of love. Somehow, some way, it would be done.
The tree went for several years with no sight of the couple. People came and people went, and still the tree waited. It cannot be said that it grieved; it was a tree, and trees don't grieve. But it did notice. Something was amiss. What it could not know was that the wife fell victim to dementia and the husband stayed at her side, unwilling to leave for any reason. Going to their special place was meaningless without her. Just once, the two of them came to the glade. The woman was in a wheelchair, fastened to it with a sort of belt. But what tenderness was shown that day! The husband drove as close as he could, gently carried her from car to chair, and wheeled her as close as possible to their tree. He then stopped and braked the chair, making sure that his wife's unseeing eyes were towards him, just in case. He spread a last picnic for them both, sandwiches and tea for him, baby food and tea for her. When the repast was ready, he tied her bib, loosened the belt with loving hands, and carried her to the blanket, setting her oh-so-gently on the spot he had reserved for her. He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips, and then shared his meal with her. Even though many would say that she was no longer present in her body, he still saw the beauty that he had met and married and loved and cared for for so many years. What he didn't realize was that she knew it, too. And so did the tree.
The next time the man visited the glade, he was alone. No, not alone. He had a box in his hands, a box which he held every bit as tenderly as he had held the wife that used to be. He knelt down under the tree, said a prayer, and then he let her go. The tree felt the ashes blown by the wind as they permeated the air, the leaves, the branches, and his heart. He let them fly, watching them through eyes dimmed with tears. He never came again.
Not long after, his children came. Another box. The box was held awkwardly, not tenderly, and there was nervous laughter. But they had promised, and they were obedient to the end. Once again the muttered prayer, once again the tears, once again the ashes permeating the atmosphere. Only the tree understood. Only the tree saw the two come together. Only the tree felt the hands clasp within his soul and heard the woman say, lucidly at last, "I'm so glad you've come. Welcome home. I love you."
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