My Father, The Oak Tree

When my grandmother was dying of Parkinsons, she whispered (that was as loud as she could speak) that she wanted to see the tree my grandfather liked so much. It’s a large white oak that stands on the far side of our little frog pond. The tree reaches up, it’s branches proud and perfect, like the antlers of a stag, a king. This is in part because my father cut down the trees that were once in immediate proximity and groomed its symmetrical crown. It has always been my grandaddy’s favorite tree, but now it’s an edifice, a breathing column, backbone of my childhood home, forever strong and present. 

It probably took her a few tries to communicate the wish. Speaking was so strained those last days and my father, to whom she spoke, has a hard time hearing, what with all the chainsaws. When he did understand, he leaned over and picked her up, out of her wheelchair. Her body was small and rigid then, like a wooden doll. He carried his mother outside, onto the deck he built. The view of Grandaddy Oak (that’s what we all came to call it) is grand indeed from up there. The trunk appears pale and silver from that distance, striking against the forest backdrop. The reflection in the pond spreads through the water and the tree becomes even more impossible, shining in two places at once. 

But he continued on, walking the wooden steps and the stone path he made down the hill so many years ago. They went across the green yard that was once a pile of dirt. Past the boulders he so gleefully put there with the rented bulldozers and excavators he taught himself to use. He walked around the pond with my grandmother in his arms, all the way to the base of the tree. And he held her there and she knew he could because he is big and strong. He sat with her under Grandaddy Oak. She said, and maybe this time he heard her the first time because some things were easier for her to say than others, “It’s a good tree.”