Climbing

Through pain and loss, one special tree provided stability when it was needed most.

Supported and inspired by nature. (Photo by Teal Conroy)

I squinted through sore eyes at branches that wove upward and created the illusion of delicate cracks in the light blue sky. 

My daughter pulled her gangly six-year-old frame onto the lowest hanging limb. “Mommy, remember when we couldn’t climb up by ourselves?” 

I did remember. The fear of forgetting felt all-consuming. 

I watched her and her older brother scramble up our favorite tree. We claimed this beautiful tree as our own on a hike years ago. It sat singularly at the peak of a small crest on the Mt. Burdell trail, accessible to tiny arms yet vast in stature. Vibrant green leaves enveloped the floating laughter from my children. 

It was April 2020 and it was the first time we had left the house since the pandemic began. It was also one day after I spoke to my grandfather for the last time. 

In a normal world, I would have been at my Grandad’s side when he lost his battle with Alzheimer’s. His hand would have laid gently in mine as I told him one last time that I loved him. Instead, I cradled the phone when I said my goodbyes from the confines of my bedroom. I could only hope that my words had reached his ear.

Normalcy was as necessary as the crisp air I inhaled between tight-chested sobs. My kids needed to do normal things, like scraping their hands over rough bark as they ascended without restrictions. I craved a hint of joy and promise. 

My children giggled. I exhaled. Our tree provided an escape from a world that had gone askew. 

My grandfather may have lost his memories, but I was determined to hold onto mine. Our lovely tree, my kids’ tinkling laughter, and that one sweet moment of normal became forever embedded in my mind. 

I never want to forget.