Who Knew a Tree Could Teach Me

Who knew a tree could teach me
how grief could root itself
beside a creek,
in tall wild grasses,
in front of a log home
where love had nowhere else to go.

It was November.
The ground was frozen.
I wanted to plant a tree for you, Noah,
but the earth would not open,
so we chose the pine
already standing there,
single trunk rising,
then splitting into two.

One side looked tired,
almost ready to leave.
One side stood green,
strong, alive.
I wondered if we would lose it too.

But we came with prayers.
More than a hundred blessings,
printed and laminated,
strung with ribbons,
hung from its branches
by hands that loved you.

Through snow and wind,
through rain and dark,
the prayers moved with the tree,
whispering your name
into winter.

By spring,
a few had fallen gently
into the grasses,
and the tree
had begun to heal.

Who knew love
could touch bark and branch?
Who knew prayers
could become medicine?
Who knew a tree
could take what was dying
and teach it how to live again?

Eight years later,
when Ambrance came and went,
we understood the split trunk
in a new way —
one side for Noah,
one side for Ambrance,
both held in the same rising body
of green.

Every November second,
I hung Christmas lights
in your branches, Noah,
and asked for a sign.
One blue light flickered
on and off,
on and off,
as if heaven had found
a small way to blink.

Every November second, I hung Christmas lights.

That same night,
you came to a friend
as blue light too,
saying you were always with us,
saying you loved
when we spoke your name.

One year, Zachary helped me
throw the lights higher
into the top branches,
and without trying,
they made the shape of a heart.

There it was —
love,
caught in the pine needles,
glowing in the dark.

I have stood beside you, tree,
and sung my sadness down:

Morning sun, morning sun,
come my way, come my way.
Take my pain, take my pain
down under, down under.
Cool water, cool water.

And you let me release
only what I could bear,
a little grief at a time,
a little salt,
a little ache,
a little breath
back to the earth.

Then one day,
sitting in gratitude
for all you had held,
I felt your love
come back to me.

Not as words,
but as a great opening —
my heart cracking wide
beneath your branches.

Now you are taller
than my two-story home,
strong and beautiful,
standing alone
in the wild grasses
beside the creek.

No longer the tree
I thought we might lose,
but the tree
that taught me
nothing touched by love
is ever truly lost.

Who knew a tree could teach me
how to grieve,
how to listen,
how to keep speaking
to the ones I cannot hold.

Who knew a tree could teach me
that prayers have roots,
that light has memory,
that love can flicker blue
through the dark
and still be enough.

Who knew a tree could teach me
that healing does not always arrive
as an answer.

Sometimes
it stands quietly
in the front yard,
growing taller each year,
holding two souls,
one family,
and all the prayers
the wind has not forgotten.

It stands quietly in the front yard.