comforting the trees

In my yard, there are two elm trees that often catch my attention. They always look to me like they are standing at attention, looking for something. But maybe that is because I know why they look that way. 

For the first fifteen years we lived in our home, there was a bundle of large live oak trees that stood between my stoic elms. During the summer of 2020, the live oak trees fell prey to oak wilt, and we had them cut down and taken away. 

I can never see that empty space between the elms and not envision the live oaks there. 

There was once a small brick patio under the oaks. Once a hammock. Once a plastic pool that my now grown children splashed in. My eyes do not see those things any longer, but my heart fills in the space just the same. 

When I looked at the space today, I felt a pang of severe grief. I once read that trees communicate more than we know. That they share nutrients with each other when one of them is sick. Do my elms feel grief that their oak friends are gone? Do they wonder where they are now, or do they just have no memory of them at all? 

I walked over to each elm and gave them each a little pat. I felt like I wanted to say something to them, but I could not find the words. 

I just held my hand there and hoped they knew that I understand grief. I understand loss too. 

Maybe there is something better to do with grief. A better way to handle loss. But all I know how to do is hold my hand there and feel. I hope someone does the same for me. I hope someone does the same for you. 

April lives in a small town in the heart of Texas with her husband.  Her writing has been scrawled across the essays of her students for 30 years. Now that her own two children are grown,  she finally has time to sit down and write something of her very own. She writes a blog for teachers, https://teachingwithouttwitching.wordpress.com/, materials for her class, love notes to her family, and any other random thing that pops into her head.