Planting Trees

Planting Trees

Her wrinkled hands finger the frail, browning leaves tentatively. She frowns, glancing from a small sheet of instructions, and back to the tree again.

 It’s dying.

She’d had the idea to start a garden a few weeks back and thought a new tree would make a nice addition to the vacant corner of her backyard. She’d read the instructions: dig hole, put tree in hole, fill hole with eighty percent soil and twenty percent compost, then add water. The little tree had been healthy and green, thriving in its little pot from the store. Now, in the earth, it’s been slowly withering and dying.

She gathers more dirt and compacts it around the frail stem and the roots, careful not to lean it too far over to one side. She’s been trying everything she can think of, but nothing seems to work. She waters the tree each morning and evening and makes sure to pull any invading weeds. She’s even started trying to keep the tree company by setting up her lawn chair and reading her book beside it during the day and singing to it at night. She’s caught her neighbour (Nosy Annie, as she liked to call her) poking her nose through the cracks in the fence and eyeing her suspiciously. Finally, Nosy Annie piped up, pretending that she hadn’t been spying on the old woman for the past week, and declared that she should give up on the tree as she “obviously” doesn’t have a green thumb. The old woman chose to ignore her and began singing even louder to her tree in the evenings. But despite all this work, the tree still doesn’t grow.

Frustrated, the old woman brushes the dirt from her knees and shuffles her way back into the house. Her home is small but clean with a scattering of figurines, doilies and portraits. Light shines throughout the room casting a soft glow. It’s the type of home grandchildren might sneak over to in the afternoon for some home-baked cookies, but the little house is vacant. The rooms are still and quiet, except for the soft padding of the old woman’s feet and her occasional mutterings. Smiling faces from years past stare back at her with their usual monotony. Always happy and healthy, imprisoned within those tiny permanent frames. Her own face smiles back, thinking of happier times.

A little piece of forever.

The old woman shakes her head sadly and moves towards the living room, but a loud ‘Knock knock’ at the door stops her in her tracks. Her eyes glaze over in fear as she hesitates, eyeing the door suspiciously. She remains quiet, closes her eyes, and waits a few more minutes. She jumps as another ‘Knock knock’ breaks the silence. She takes a big breath, faintly tracing her fingers along the outline of her dress pocket. ‘Maybe it’s not him.…” She straightens up, smoothing her dress and brushing away any remaining dirt, before opening the door to a young man dressed in a tattered and blood-stained uniform. “O – Oh!” She stutters, falling back a step. Her shoulders sag in defeat. “Timothy! Not again, please God, not again.” The old woman begins to cry.

Bright blue eyes, the same shade as her own, stare back at her. “Hello, Mother.”

“Wh-what are you doing here? You need to leave! You can’t keep coming, you don’t belong here anymore.”

“I need your help…the gunshots, I can’t make them stop. I’m so cold.”

“Oh Timothy.” The old woman cries louder. “Oh my dear Timothy…”

“Please…Mother. My brothers, they’re waiting for me. I have to look after them. But the gunshots – they’re so loud. I can’t find them.”

“Please go, I can’t help you…”

“But you said you’d always be here for me. You said you would protect me.”

The old woman falls to her knees, crying, begging for release. “I know, I know, I know…I’m so sorry.” She reaches her hand out to him, but he doesn’t take it – his eyes and mind are elsewhere, focused on the horizon.

Timothy cries out, reaching for his gun. “We’re under fire! Everyone get down! Get down now!”

The woman lies curled onto her side, hands clasped to her ears crying and repeating the same mantra over and over. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry…” There’s a final bang, Timothy screams and cries out one last time before the room falls quiet. His body makes a loud ‘thump’ as it falls to the ground. The woman remains frozen staring into Timothy’s blank, blue eyes and watches a red stain seep into the floor around them.

The sun reaches through the door to warm her face, but she closes her eyes and waits for her tears to dry before looking back at the spot where Timothy had lain only moments before. Her son is gone, the blood is gone. No one is in the doorway. She looks out to an empty and quiet street – no gun shots, no screaming, no Timothy. The distant laughter of children at the park leaks into the room and echoes through the halls.  

She raises herself from the floor and gently closes the door before shuffling back outside to kneel before the little tree. She eyes the brown leaves and wilting stem. She sees how her fingers are stained with dirt and cut from thorns. She thinks of the countless hours she’s sat by this tree and the constant “tut tut’s” from Nosy Annie only to watch it wither and die. In a blind rage, the woman frantically plucks and tears at the leaves. She screams at the little tree, finally tearing it from the earth and throwing it across the garden. The tree comes out easily, its roots hadn’t yet had a chance to take hold.

After the screaming, there comes the silence. Always the silence. Day after day, except for the days when Timothy comes home. Then, there’s not enough silence.

She rests her hand in the pocket of her dress, finally pulling out a small badge – a purple heart. She traces the edges as a stream of tears drips onto the surface. She thinks of Timothy’s bright blue eyes – so similar to her own – and how they used to smile back at her in this same back yard. She walks back to the withering tree, picks it up and places it back in the plot. There are barely any leaves left and the branches are tired and frail. As the old woman once again compacts the soil around the tree, she takes out the badge, kisses the cold metal and buries it in with the roots. “I’m sorry you never got a proper burial.”

For the next week, the old woman tends to the tree each day by watering and weeding and singing to it. She thinks of her son and the life they lived together, and one morning she wakes up to see that a small, green bud has appeared. After that, each day the tree begins to look a little greener, a little stronger, and eventually a lot bigger. The old woman tosses out her instructions and watches the tree as it grows and thrives, realizing that it has been almost two months since she’d last seen Timothy.