Illustration by Drew Shannon
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When a 100-year-old tree falls – or, in this case, is suddenly felled right in front of your eyes and your house – what’s left is an unnatural and largely unwelcome swath of negative space. But when this turn of events comes right on the heels of your 100-year-old mother’s passing, well, it really gets you thinking.
The insistent knock on the door couldn’t possibly have heralded good news. Long gone are the days of “Hey, come quick, Mr. Baxter just got a new Chevy and he’s giving all the neighbourhood kids a ride in it.” On the contrary, here was an emotionless city worker – decked out in surprisingly reflective clothing for mid-afternoon – come to declare that it was time for our towering Norway maple to push up the daisies (ironic, given how we’d struggled for 25 years to make anything grow around it). Large sections of it were split and rotting, apparently, and for the sake of the common good – and particularly the power lines – it had to come down.
As old as this magnificent tree was – planted as a sapling when our house was shiny and new – we had been with it for more than a quarter of its life. Beyond the shade it bestowed, how many gallons of humidity had it respirated from our sweltering summer air? How much city grime and CO2 had it scrubbed? How much pure oxygen had it dispensed? As I stepped out the next day and shielded my eyes from the glaring, unfamiliar morning light, I marvelled at how easy it is to take something so huge – so elemental – for granted.
And I thought of my mom. She, too, had just left us after a century on this Earth. Though mostly silent in recent years, she was no less foundational a piece of my world than she’d always been. Her hands had been soft, warm and reassuring right up to the end, with a grip that seemed to say as much about quiet resolve as it did physical strength. Our roles had fundamentally changed over the years, of course – directly swapped in some ways – but I still looked up to her diminutive frame, still treasured the core warmth, humour and profound decency to be glimpsed in her eyes. Even in the sunset of dementia, she could actively give comfort and stability through a seemingly passive presence.
So it was with that tree. Stay around long enough and sooner or later you become a landmark. You weave yourself into the rhythm of the seasons, the cadence of light and dark, the very fabric of life and the lives you’ve touched. Kids love to visit you. Countless others – human, critter and plant – come to know you, love you, enjoy what you bring and rely on what you provide. Some even have you to thank for their very existence.
One thing I won’t miss is the leaves. As lush and abundant as they were through the spring and summer, they all had to go somewhere in the fall. And if their sheer quantity wasn’t daunting enough, the timing of their annual avalanche proved a continual irritation. This particular maple couldn’t have cared less that all the others had already turned glorious shades of scarlet and gold and started stripping down for winter. It always chose to remain stubbornly green for weeks longer, sometimes even through the first snowfall, as if to say, “My chlorophyll will function on my schedule and my terms alone.” (I only came to learn after it was gone that Norway maples are known for such tenacity. Funny how you can be around something for so long and still find things to learn about it; best to ask all the right questions while you can.)
Mom wasn’t dissimilar, now that I think about it. She always marched to the beat of her own drum, whose tempo – especially during my youth – could at times feel slower than a parliamentary debate. Never mind that by the time the rest of us were finished eating, she’d only be halfway through methodically scouring her plate (and we were expected to remain at the table right to the bitter, well-chewed end). No matter that we were bombing around Disney World, eager to hit the next ride; she’d be lingering in the bathroom, comparing notes with some nice lady from Des Moines about their kids’ names and birth signs. She got the better part of many a negotiation by just quietly dragging it on until the vendor succumbed. She savoured everything at her own stately pace and she was never, ever bored. (How useful these vestiges from a bygone age could be in the modern one!)
When essential things go missing from your life, loss falls like a thick blanket. But when it’s layers of perennial shelter that have been summarily stripped away, we’re left exposed and sorely vulnerable as well. Grief is a complex brew. At least for my part I can find solace in the depth and breadth of the roots that remain. They’ll surely outlast us all.
And now, when I glance up at that big new patch of open sky, I like to think I can see Mom a bit better too.
Paul Ackerley lives in Toronto.