Your life in the year of a tree

 

The leaf buds were bursting on the knobbly old oak tree as I opened the card: “Congratulations, from proud new grandparents.”

Before you started school we lived outside under that tree when it was hot.  Painting “my family” smudgy pictures in the dappled shade.

So many autumn leaves – you helped sweep them up. Bonfire and fireworks, soup and toffee in your den: “Adults keep out”.

A ring tone jarred as snow settled silently on the branches and smouldering logs filled the house with a sweet smoky smell.  “Hi mum, b home from uni b4 xmas eve, xxx.”

Life’s compost heap

Rosie hesitated by the weeping cherry tree and reflected. A memento of a life cut short. The pain of losing their first baby had faded over the years and become a part of what made Rosie the person she was now. It’s as if the things that had happened to her had composted away in her head.  The tough experiences were like the egg shells and mango stones of her mental compost heap. Mixed with the mundane potato peelings of everyday life they’d eventually broken down to a rich mulch that had given her strength and confidence to blossom.

Blood and ice

 

 

“It’s alright Mary, we’ll look after you” reassures the professional on the other end of the phone line trying hard to keep her patient talking. Mary feels like someone is sitting on her chest, squeezing the air out of her. As she struggles to breathe, she feels like she has walked up four flights of stairs yet she is slumped on the bottom step barely able to hold onto the phone in her clammy hand. As pale as the Berber carpet, Mary feels guilty at making a fuss, and all she can think, as the nice lady keeps talking in her ear, is I mustn’t be sick here.