A Tree in the Garden

A TREE IN THE GARDEN

I sit on a bench in the garden behind the home where my great-grandparents once lived, a notebook and pen in my lap. At the center of the garden is a tree that my great-grandfather planted as a gift for my great-grandmother. Several decades later he passed away, but the tree remains: a tall, beautiful tree that symbolized my great-grandparents' eternal love for one another.

In more than a hundred years the tree has grown from a sapling that would've been about half my height to a tall, beautiful tree reaching high into the sky. Its branches spread across most of the garden, providing shade on hot, sunny days, reminding me of my mother arm's wrapping around me each day when I came home from school.

Most of the year the tree has big, bright green leaves. But each Autumn, its leaves turn red at first and then brown, falling to the ground like slowly spinning butterfly wings. The wind then blows the leaves away, like clearing the table after a meal, so that the tree is ready for new leaves in the Spring.

---------

One day, back when I was still a little girl, I remember asking my great-grandmother, “Why didn't Great-Grandpa just tell you that he loved you, Great-Grandma?”

“Because he never found it easy to say how he felt,” she said. “It was easier for Pietro to plant the tree and let that do the talking for him.”

“What did you do in return?” I asked.

She smiled. “I hugged him, kissed him, and thanked him for being so kind and thoughtful.” I saw her look out the kitchen window at the garden. “Every time I see the tree, it feels like he's still here.”

“You miss him, Great-Grandma?” I asked.

She nodded. “Every day.”

“I miss him, too,” I said.

“You'll see him again someday,” she said.

“Soon?” I asked hopefully.

“Maybe when you're older,” she said.

“Will you see him again?” I asked.

“Someday,” she said. “But not too soon, I hope.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I like being here, too,” she said and hugged me. “Want to help me make some traditional Italian desserts?”

I smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

---------

Sitting on the bench all these years later, I record these memories in my notebook, including a poem inspired by one that my great-grandmother wrote to my great-grandfather. The notebook will be a gift to my daughter one day. A gift that, in turn, she can share with her child or children.

I hear laughter. I pause and look up to see children playing in and around the tree. One of the children is my daughter Lucia. She is tall and beautiful like the tree. She runs over to me and gives me a hug and kiss. I feel like I've been given a gift more precious than life itself.

“What are you doing, Mama?” Lucia asks.

“I'm writing about us,” I say. “Mostly about you.”

“Can I read it?” she asks.

“Not yet, Lucia,” I say. “Maybe I'll read from it when you're older.”

She looks disappointed.

“Think of it as a reward for being patient,” I say.

“Promise?” she asks.

I nod. “I promise.”

----------

A decade later, I watch Lucia walk down the center aisle of the village church, in the same wedding dress that I was married in. At her side is her father, arm-in-arm with her. She smiles at me as they pass my pew. They stop at the altar where a young man in a tuxedo is waiting. Her father gives him her hand, says something, and the young man nods. Then her father rejoins me.

“What did you tell him?” I softly ask.

“To take good care of her,” he softly replies. “She's amazing.”

“Yes, she is,” I agree.

“I can still remember when she was born,” he says.

“So can I,” I say just as softly. “I can also remember her climbing on the tree in the garden and playing near it. It feels like yesterday to me. It's hard to believe that it was ten years ago. Time really does fly.”

“Wish her well,” he says.

“I already have,” I say. “You do it, too. After all, it took both of us to bring her into this world. With God's help.”

He nods. “With God's help. I wish you a long and happy life, Lucia.”

The wedding ceremony commences. Near the end of it, the priest asks the bride and groom a question.

The couple takes turns saying, “I do.”

The priest then says, “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

They kiss and everyone claps. I reach up to wipe the happy tears from my eyes.

“You're crying?” my husband asks me.

I shrug. “Someone's cutting onions.”

He laughs softly. “You never were a good liar.”

“And I hope I never will be one,” I say.

My husband and I watch the newly married couple walk down the aisle, arm-in-arm. As they're about to pass our pew, I hand Lucia the notebook. She smiles, gives me a hug, and then gives her father a hug. After that, she and her husband continue to the front door of the church. The heavy wooden doors are opened and sunlight fills the church's interior.

The congregation follows the bride and groom outside. We cheer as rice is thrown into the air above their heads. I've never seen Lucia look so happy. Her husband looks like he's the luckiest man in the world.

An old white Fiat Topolino is parked near the bottom of the church steps. Rain isn't expected; the car's dark cloth roof has been rolled back all the way. The car has already been decorated for the wedded couple. Large white lettering on the rear windshield reads, “Newly Married”. There are even empty aluminum cans on strings tied to the car's rear bumper.

The Fiat used to belong to my grandparents. From now on, it will belong to Lucia and her husband.

They get in the car and I watch them stand up in the roof's opening. They wave to the congregation. Lucia waves the notebook at me. I smile and nod. Then they kiss each other. More cheering from the congregation. Lucia turns away and tosses her bridal bouquet into the air. I'm pleasantly surprised to see it land in my hands. I hold the bouquet carefully: one last gift from Lucia before she starts her new life. She and her husband sit back down inside the car and drive away, the aluminum cans rattling as they tumble and bounce along the road. It doesn't take long for the sound to fade away.

Once the car is out of sight, the priest re-enters the church and the rest of us head back to our homes.

As we walk home, I hope that Lucia won't forget her parents. Or the tree in the garden. The notebook should help her remember. Maybe she'll read it to her children, reminding them of their grandparents and great-great-great-grandparents.

This is the price of being a parent. You raise your child or children as best you can. You watch them grow up. You watch them meet the person they eventually marry. You watch them get married and leave the church. You might even help them move to their new home. Afterward, there might be the feeling of an empty nest where the parents still live. But it isn't empty. It's filled with years and years of experiences and memories.

----------

Then one day, several years later, there's a knock on the front door. I open it and there is Lucia. A little older, but still happy. Her husband is at her side and between them their first child, a son.

“Pietro, this is your grandmother,” Lucia tells the boy and then speaks to me. “Mama, this is Pietro. We decided to name him after your great-grandfather.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

“Where is Papa?” she asks.

“He had to go to work today,” I say.

“On a Saturday?” Lucia asks.

I nod. “But he'll be so happy to see you when he gets home. We've both missed you so much.”

“We would've visited sooner, but – well, life – you know – things get busy and – time passed so quickly,” she says apologetically. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” I say. “You're here. You, your husband, and your son. That's what matters to me.”

Pietro runs ahead of us as we walk to the garden. We sit down on a bench and watch him play.

“Are you staying for the night, or is this just a day trip?” I ask.

“I was hoping that we could stay for longer than that,” Lucia says. “If you don't mind.”

“I don't mind in the least,” I say.

At first, Pietro sits on the ground, giggling as he throws piles of leaves into the air. Next, he tries to climb up onto anything within reach. Sometimes he falls, but it doesn't seem to hurt him much. He just stands up and dusts himself off. Then he runs to the tree in the center of the garden. He isn't big enough to climb it yet, so he satisfies himself with shaking its lower branches, making some of the leaves fall.

“He's so happy here,” Lucia says.

“He isn't the only one,” I say.

“Thank you for your notebook, Mama,” she says. “Especially the poem you wrote in it. Were I to ask Papa, I think he would just say that he agrees with you. It's always been easier for you to express yourself than it is for him.”

I smile. “Just like my great-grandparents.”

“Did they ever write poems to each other?” Lucia asks.

“My great-grandmother did,” I said. “I borrowed a little from hers when I wrote your poem.”

“I've read it,” she says. “But I'd love to hear you recite it.”

I happily do so:

Live well, live long, live happily.

You are the joy of our lives.

You are the tree in our garden.

Like the tree, you reach up to the sky,

You breathe in the fresh air, soaking up

The sunshine and rain, growing strong,

Tall and beautiful. You are the

Happy product of the love that

Your father and I share with each other

Each and every day. We would not

Have you be any other way than

As you are. We're so proud of you, Lucia.

Love, Mama and Papa

“Thank you, Mama,” she says, hugging me.

“You're more than welcome, Lucia,” I say.

Moments later, Pietro runs over to us and jumps into his mother's lap. He hugs her and kisses her on the cheek. Then he leans over and does the same to me. As he does so, he puts something into my hands.

Looking down, I see one of the leaves from the tree.

(This short story was adapted from a poem I wrote in March 2017.)