Victoria

Brum-brum-brum-brrrrrrr, the chainsaw of the construction man begins to cut down my favorite tree. My beautiful cherry weeping tree. She had baby pink flowers sprouting from her ends. She had strong, sturdy roots. She had spots of shade that held touches of sunlight. She had a large trunk and a flatter spot on one side of it that had been molded there after generations, perfect for my back to rest against. She was so tall, and so magnificent, I swear she touched the heavens with her tallest branch. She was the perfect tree to get comfortable with, while I hold a fresh book in my hands, in a sunny-shady spot beneath her. She was my Victoria, I was her Amelia. I may sound silly, but if you knew Victoria like I did, it wouldn't be so silly. Victoria was the backbone of my life, because I knew that when I got home from school she would always be there for me standing tall and strong above the pond.

But now, Victoria’s strength is gone. I knew that this time was going to happen soon. Her lovely flowers were beginning to fade, her branches looked so dreary. And within time her roots became weak. You may think she was just a tree, but she was so much more than that, she was my lovely umbrella when the summer rain came. 

When I was about 6, I remember making a wind chime with my grandmother. With seashells, broken tiles, old keys, and some string. I was so proud of that wind chime. My grandmother helped me hang it on the lowest branch near my spot. Ever since, the wind chime has been blowing through the wind that passes through Victoria’s flowers. The wind chime, it chimes no longer.

My parents were explorers, adventurers, venturesome. They loved thrill and action, so they traveled the world. They booked any plane ticket available. My parents encouraged me to be anything I wanted to be, and they taught me how to do everything. From rock climbing, to snowboarding, to cliff jumping. But, I simply was more of an introvert. Amelia, the girl who reads books whilst she sits under that one tree. That was me. My parents were okay with that, because they just wanted me to be happy.

“Find your thrill,” my parents would always say, “whether it is walking a tight rope, or gardening, because it’s worth your while.”

They always knew exactly what to say.

Unfortunately, on one of their epic adventures, the plane they were on crashed. There were no survivors. 

I was raised by my grandmother the rest of my life. My grandma was just like me. She loved reading, especially under the tree in our backyard, Victoria. She raised my mom the very same, but my mother is nothing like that. 

As I stand on my back porch thinking of all the memories lost, my grandmother joins me on our back porch. Her silver hair flows in the breeze. My eyes are teary, and my hands are folded on the rail of the porch. 

“Amelia, it’s going to be alright.” my grandma says with a shaky voice. 

It’s going to be alright. The few words I despise the very most, my grandmother means well, those words are typically comforting. Those words to me are worthless. They are words for you to believe something that may be completely false. For example, the fact that she is telling me it is going to be alright. When we both know it will not.

Yet I still say, “Yes, I know, it is just hard right now.” 

Then it's quiet. We watch the men get through the last bit of Victoria. We watch her fall to the ground. Shaking half of her flowers off. A single tear falls from my grandmothers eye, I’m nearly sobbing. 

“What’s done is done.” my grandmothers says, a typical phrase in the household.

“What’s done is done.” I repeat as my mouth becomes dry. 

There were so many things I wish I could have done, things I wish I could have said, but all I did was watch my tree fall down. I watched it plummet to its unfathomable death. It crashed and cried for help. But I stood here on the porch as I watched the constructions crew cut through the generations, memories, love. The tree that felt as if it was the foundation of my family. But it’s all gone now, gone forever. 

The days went by, with no tree in the park in my backyard. Just a short stump. No more shade with light peaking through. No more place I know will always be there. Just a stump. It was sad and pathetic. It was disgusting and horrid. It was like looking at something so horrendous I wanted to start bawling. It brought pain to my heart in the place it hurt the most. It was not going to be alright. 

I hold my book in my hands and feel my fingers delicately over the cover. Remembering how my grandmother taught me how to read my very first book under that tree. My single loose french braid tickles my lower back, and it moves in the wind. I remember how my dad would have to help me remove my hair from the bark of the tree. It used to get intertwined in the groves after sitting in the soft grass for hours. It just was not going to be alright. 

I sat in the grass where my sunny-shady spot once was. Where I spent my days. But, not anymore. 

Suddenly, my grandmother begins to approach me. With a stick looking figure in a plastic pot. It almost looked like one of Victoria’s branches. 

Once my grandmother gets to me she says, “It’s not exactly Victoria, but I’d say it’s a pretty good start.”

That’s when I realize it isn’t a branch at all. It’s a small tree. A little cherry weeping tree. I nod as tears begin to cover my face. I had no words to describe the irregular pain I had felt at that moment. 

My grandma grabs a shovel that she had in her garden nearby. 

“It’s only right if you are the one to plant her.” my grandmother says as I nod again. 

I just couldn’t really speak at that time at all. I walked a little farther away from the stump so that the roots had plenty of room to grow. I pushed a little dirt away and placed the new tree into the dirt. 

My grandma came up behind me and kneeled down and said, 

“There will never be another Victoria, but there will always be memories to look back on and hold in our hearts, this tree will be just as loved, and end up with just as many memories.”

I start to break down in my grandma’s arms. I cry and I cry. My grandma is the peacemaker. She makes everything better again. But this is never going to be alright. Ever.