We have this great old tree right off our balcony. It is huge, and elegant, as trees are wont to be.
When we moved in, a week after Leta's funeral, it was March, and the tree was cold and frozen. I would sit out there, thinking to myself that when this old tree changed I was going to be healed. Things would be better. As the weeks went by, I would watch the tree, willing it to bud, to magically come and take my grief and pain from me. I would sit on this balcony, sometimes stand, and stare over the edge, willing myself not to jump. Seriously. I was in a bad bad place. But there was this tree. And this tree and I had a damn deal.
So I waited, and I watched. Buds appeared. Still grieving. So I promised myself when this old tree is in full glorious bloom, the green leaves reaching for the sky, then, then You will be healed. Okay. Spring turned into Summer. The leaves were majestic, the tree was stretching so far into the sky. It was alive with green, and birds and the hum of cicadas. And still. Still I grieved.
And as the tips of the leaves began to turn yellow, then orange, still I grieved. Still I cried. And now as the leaves are browning, and floating to the earth, dancing on the wind I am still grieving. BUT I am seeing the light. The beauty in this tree. This tree and I had a deal. It would bring me back to life with it's changes. I was looking so hard that I forgot to notice the beauty. The beauty of the tree, of the sky, of my family. I was looking too hard. It wasn't until I gave up on that old tree that I began to see that through all my grief, all my changes that tree has been there with me. It has grown, and changed, from something ugly and cold, to lush and beautiful, and now to reserved and calm. And so, I think, have I.