I put up a blog post today about The Tree Remembers. Please do share it with friends - I'm trying a new way of talking about stories, and I really like it so far.
It felt so good to see all those trees again. Ontario had so many deciduous trees, it didn’t look right. But, in B.C., the lodgepole pines towered up towards the sky, kings and queens of all they surveyed. My parents’ house nestled among them as if it too had grown there, and I could see the swing set Dad had put up for me over half a lifetime ago. It was still in good condition, still accompanied by the frayed rope swing that I’d fallen off more times than I could count when I was still getting the hang of it.
I pulled into the gravel parking pad, coming to a halt next to my mom’s twenty year old Corsica, and wondering how much she’d spent on repairs again this year. There was always something wrong with that car, but she wouldn’t give it up. She and Dad had bought it not too long before I came into their lives. No matter how often they had to replace a part as it aged, no matter how much the paint peeled, she refused to let it go. She would treat it well and take care of it until it killed her on the road someday, I was sure, no matter how broken it got.
The steps up to the front creaked as they always had. As if nothing had happened. Part of me wanted to go check on the tree first, but Mom had probably seen me drive in, and I’d already hurt her enough by being so stupid on the phone. I rang the doorbell.
When she opened the door, Mom didn’t say anything. She just came up and hugged me, and the wool of her red sweater scratched my skin.