| Jason and the Red-Barked Tree by Kathleen Robinson |
Have to get out of here! There was a thickness in the air that felt like death — It surrounded me, suffocating me. The weathered screen door slammed shut behind me as I scampered to my backyard. I bent over, gasping for fresh air, and spotted the familiar cherry tree. I was unexplainably drawn to it. It felt like an old friend. I dropped to my knees below the canopy of the red-barked tree and remembered my father’s words. “The roots of a tree connect us to the earth,” he’d said. “Its branches connect us to the heavens.” If that was so, why couldn't I talk to him? A pink blossom fell at my feet, brushing my bare arm as it glided down to the earth. “Soak in the fragrance of my cherry blossom,” someone whispered. “It will awaken energies of faith and trust within you.” My senses were on high alert as I spun in all directions. I saw no one. “Gaze upon the color of my pink petals and you will be filled with compassion and love,” the whisper said. I sprung to my feet and cautiously peered around. A swirl of wind whisked by and a small branch hit me on the head as it fell from above. I rubbed my head as I looked up. “Like the phoenix, you can rise from the ashes,” the tree seemed to whisper. I shook my head in disbelief. This can’t be real. Yet, I remembered a story my father told me when I was little about a tree that helped children. “You are on a threshold of new awakenings,” the tree said. “Who are you?” I whispered back. “How did you do that?” “Some called me The Ancient One. Others called me, The Wise Cherry Tree,” it said with a rumbling chuckle. Insulted, my hands formed into clenched fists. “Why are you laughing at me?” “I’m not laughing at you, Jason.” “How do you know my name?” “I’ve known you since you were born. Your parents planted me in honor of your birth.” Mentioning my father reminded me of my sorrows. I felt my body soften. “I’m afraid I’ll forget my father. I miss him. I want to be with him.” “Learn the lesson of the palm tree. It teaches that the past serves a purpose. The past will always be a part of you. Your father will never forget you. Why would you forget your father?” I bent my head back as far as it would go to see the entire tree. “I’m so very tired,” I sighed, ignoring his question. “I’m tired of walking around in a fog. My heart hurts like it's being ripped in two.” I blinked back tears that were swelling in my eyes. The thick green grass seemed to beckon me to rest upon it. My shoulders drooped as I slowly sat down. I felt the tension in me melt away as if it were seeping into the ground. I was grateful to unload my burdens, even if it was only to a tree. I couldn't eat without feeling nauseous. I couldn't remember what day it was. "It’s hard to get out of bed, to go to school. I don’t want to do my schoolwork. I want him to come back! Why can’t he come back?” At that moment, a sparrow flew over my head and sat upon a spindly branch. A small gray feather drifted onto my lap. I picked it up, and for a brief second, I wondered about its small size. Cautiously, I dared to whisper my most feared question. “Did I do something wrong? Did I make him go away?” “No, you did nothing wrong. Death is a component of life,” the tree gently said. “We are born, we live, we die. Yet, just as the seed of my cherry sprouts new life, so do you. It is all a part of your journey. Your father is not truly gone. He has simply changed. His love for you never goes away. His memories of you never die.” “I never got to say goodbye.” Uncontrollable sobs started pouring out of me from a deep well within. My whole being trembled like a leaf being ripped from its branch during a storm. I remembered when Mom told me the news; it felt like someone punched me in the gut. My stomach still ached. “Uncle Henry said I have to be the man of the house now. Mom cries all the time and hardly ever talks to me. I can’t be the man of the house. I’m only fourteen! I’m angry — angry at God, and sometimes, angry at Dad. I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it.” I bent my head down in shame, wishing I could fade away. A breeze blew through the branches above and several more pink blossoms fell on me as if enveloping me with love. I could swear I heard the tree cry. “I still look at the clock everyday at 6:00 pm, expecting him to walk through the door. Sometimes, I think if I stare enough and pray hard enough, he will walk through that door. Then, we’d be a family again. Then, Mom would stop crying. Everything would be back to normal.” I laid down on the grass, cupping a pink blossom in my hand. “It’s normal to be angry,” the tree said. “God and your father understand. It’s normal to feel rejected. It’s normal to want to believe he’s not gone. It’s normal for your body to feel sick and tired. It’s good to cry. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. Tears are cleansing, renewing. They help to purge some of the pain.” I love my dad. I begged God to let him come back to us. I begged God to let me go with him. I told God I’d do better, be better, if only he’d let Dad come back.” Tears continued to flood down my face like an overrun stream in a storm. It felt good to cry. I had tried so hard to not cry so Mom wouldn’t be sadder. The wise tree seemed to know my thoughts. “Your mom won’t be sadder or think less of you if you cry. She doesn’t want to make it any harder on you. She just doesn’t know what to say. She, too, wants it to be the way it was before the accident.” Wind whistled through the tree. The white-chested sparrow took flight. “Follow the sparrow. It will lead you to a place of healing. The sparrow knows of your long suffering. It can teach you how to survive. It can help awaken a new sense of self-worth within you. The little bird is small, yet strong. It can teach you to triumph in spite of your loss and sorrow.” I scrambled to my feet and hastily followed the tiny bird. It flew towards a place I knew too well and settled on a limb of a giant sycamore tree. The newly sprouted leaves were shiny and green. The marker beneath the tree read … Steven Allen Hughes. Devoted son, husband and father. Born January 15, 1969. Died February 28, 2009. The words of the wise cherry tree swirled in my head. “Have compassion and love for yourself and others,” it said. “Have faith and trust that you will survive this. You will work through this. The pain may never go away, but it will lessen through time. Remember the good times.” Desperately wanting to believe in its wisdom, I closed my eyes and thought of me and my dad fishing beside our favorite creek. A surprising, yet welcome, smile painted my face. I felt him! I felt Dad’s hand wrapped around mine … holding my fishing reel and rod. It seemed like a lifetime ago that I’d smiled a real, heartfelt smile. I lay down on the fresh cut lawn beneath the sycamore tree. I looked up to the blue sky and heard a voice. “I will always be with you,” it said. “When you look at the sunrise, that is me … rising up from the Earth … looking over you. When you see the sunset, that is me … resting with you.” I knew whose voice that is. It was the voice of my father. The little sparrow began to sing. Its song filled my heart with hope and love. Seasons changed. I found myself again at that all too familiar place. One thing remained the same. Whenever I heard the song of a sparrow, my strength renewed. It reminded me that I will survive. It reminded me that it was okay to go on. It reminded me of that day at the cemetery when Dad held my hand and spoke loving, protective words to me. Copyright by Anne's Backgrounds |