Weeping willow

(Mention of death)

It surprised me when I reached halfway up the trunk of the tree. I hadn’t climbed it for over three decades and although I was often tempted, I never did. I’m a grown-up now and grown-ups don’t climb trees. It had stood at the end of the garden for as long as I could remember in my family home. One of my earliest memories was of watching my brother climb the tree and tease me because I was too small to reach the branches. But here I am now, over twenty feet up enjoying the peace. To my left, is the house I was born in, in need of some TLC but still habitable. To my right, not really wanting to look, are the beginnings of a new housing estate. A light breeze blows through the leaves and tousles my hair so that it becomes tangled in the twigs, but I don't mind. It only makes me feel more connected to it, as if the tree is clinging to me for safety as I had clung to it throughout my childhood.

  Anytime I had felt sad or excited or I just wanted a space to be alone, the tree was where I would retreat to. It became my mute confidante, never offering advice or telling me how to behave, it merely listened and comforted me with its strong arm-like branches. It was dependable when people were not. Always there, a constant in my sometimes turbulent teens, and anxious adolescence. In adulthood, every time I returned to visit my parents, I would find myself gravitating to the tree, just enjoying its presence. And when my parents died, it was at the foot of the tree where I buried their ashes.

  ‘How long is this going to go on for?’ my husband is asking, wearily.

I glance down through the branches and see him and our son craning their necks to look up at me. I don’t like to admit that the view downward makes my stomach flip. I’ve been up here a while and the sun is casting long shadows. Much longer than when I climbed up here.

  ‘If you’re hungry, go home. Don’t worry about me,’ I reply.

Even from this distance I hear my husband sigh.

  ‘I’m not hungry, Tina, I’m concerned,’ he replies, ‘you’ve been up there for hours. Are you planning on sleeping up there with the bats and the spiders?’

He knows I hate spiders and he’s trying to frighten me down from the tree, but my fear of losing the tree is much greater.

   ‘I can’t let it go,’ I answer as I continue to look out at the view between the gaps of the long leaves. I hear him walking away, muttering.

  ‘I’ll bring you some pizza,’ my son shouts up to me before running after his dad.

My family home has been sold to pay the nursing home fees that accumulated over the months before my mum died. Meanwhile, my dad had rattled around the house alone, struggling to maintain it. And now, with both of them departed, it has to go. No-one else wanted to buy it, It’s too ramshackle and has too much land attached for anyone but developers. In my grief, I hadn’t sought a tree preservation order quickly enough and now my lifelong friend is doomed. The auctioneers had warned me that it would be a quick sale and yesterday I received the call to say that the deal was done and I had 24 hours to take whatever I wanted from the house before the developers took over.

   My son came with me this morning to sift through the belongings. There was some fishing gear that he wanted and I needed to find the photo albums before they were lost forever. Photos that my son has never seen before. We sat for far too long, me reminiscing, and him pointing out his various great uncles and second cousins.

  ‘Who’s the fat kid?’ he asked, candidly, as is his way.

  ‘Your uncle Graham,’ I replied fondly.

  ‘And then he got skinny and died?’ he asked.

  I nodded, ‘yeah, eventually he got skinny.’

Seven-year-olds are allowed to be blunt, and I have no desire to burden him with the details of disease and decay. Not today. This was going to be a happy day to remember my parents and my early life here with positive memories. If I allowed myself to wallow in grief, I would become bitter at the loss of this wonderful house and the horror of what it will become. I picked up a photo of a family picnic at the seaside, my parents wearing jumpers, my brothers pudgy face, and me, all knobbly knees.

  ‘Who’s that man?’ my son asked, poking me in the arm.

I looked up to see what he was looking at, expecting him to be scrutinising a photograph, but he was looking out of the French window at a man striding down the garden. I quickly scrambled to my feet and hauled myself up using the hearth; my legs were stiff from squatting on the floor. I stared open mouthed at this intruder and flung open the doors.

   ‘Can I help you?’

He turned briefly, dismissed me and continued his journey. To my absolute horror, I saw a chainsaw in his hands and before I knew it, I was running across the grass, my stiff ankles slowing me down, wailing like a banshee.

  ‘What are you doing? This is my house.’

Again, he ignored my cries. I ran faster until I caught up with him. I grabbed his arm in a desperate effort to make him acknowledge me.

‘Who are you?’

  ‘Tree man. Developers have asked me to take the tree down.’

His answer was like a kick to my stomach.

  ‘No. This is my house.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, ‘Welby Developers have commissioned me and my team to clear the trees from this land.’

  I shook my head, ‘no. it’s not theirs yet. Not until tomorrow.’

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worksheet, ‘18th July, it says here.’ he said jabbing the piece of paper, ‘oh, wait, that’s tomorrow. Well, we were in the vicinity so...' he stepped forward.

  I was shaking with anger, 'no, you can’t touch the tree. No-one is allowed to touch the tree.’

The man sighed loudly. Behind him, two more men appeared with ropes and loppers.

  He turned to his colleagues, ‘early finish today lads,’ he said to them, ‘but we’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said to me.

In a fit of panic and blind indignation I ran as fast as I could to the tree. I know it’s unfeasible for me to stay up here indefinitely and at some point, I will have to climb down, but for the moment I am determined in my protest that this beautiful willow should not be cut down. A representative from the developers of the new estate arrived shortly after the tree man left, with a letter informing me that they have abided by local planning laws and the tree has to go.

  ‘Come up here and hand it to me. It has to be hand delivered, I believe,’ I shouted to her.

I wasn’t sure about the hand delivered bit; I was just bluffing, hoping that the person at the bottom of the tree didn’t know either.

  ‘Not in these shoes,’ she shouted up, ‘come down, Mrs. Hardy and I can give it to you in person.’

I wasn’t going to fall for that.

  ‘No. I’m staying here’, I replied.

She eventually wandered off. It was a short-lived moment of victory for me, when she returned with a hammer. It was then that the letter was rudely banged into the thick bark, which incensed me further.

  ‘Have a nice evening, Mrs. Hardy,’ I heard her say.

My husband arrived shortly after, and berated me for leaving our son unattended. I told him that I knew he would be perfectly safe; I had spent many hours alone playing in the garden. But truthfully, in my concern for the tree I had forgotten all about my son.

  And so here I am now, watching the light fade, listening to the bird’s saying goodnight to one another, with gnawing hunger pains, feeling indignant and ridiculous at the same time. I rest my head against a branch and close my eyes in a silent prayer for forgiveness for letting the tree down. The wind blows harder and I hold on tighter, trying hard not to lose my grip.

  ‘Mum?’ my son has returned.

  I look down, but its gloomy now and I can’t see much, ’I’m still here,’ my voice croaks in my dry throat.

  ‘Come down for some food. There’s no-one here but us,’ he calls up to me.

He has a good point. Everyone from the development has gone for the day, so the tree is safe for the night. I hug the bough of the tree and start my descent. Lowering myself down I try to feel for the branch below with my feet but I’m unable to locate it. My arms are shaky from holding on for so long and I feel weak.

  ‘Are you coming down?’ my boy asks.

  ‘Yes, can you guide me?’ I shout, still trying to find my footing.

  ‘I’ll go and get a torch,’ he replies.

My left foot finally touches something firm and I lower myself further. My joints have stiffened again while on my vigil, and I slip and miss, tumbling through the branches, hitting several as I go. I try to grab as I fall but my reflexes are not as sharp as they once were and I land awkwardly on my back on the grass. The wind has been knocked out of me and I numbly lay still for a few seconds staring up at the dark blue sky through the gaps in between the twigs and boughs.

  ‘Mum? Are you ok?’ my son has returned with a torch and my husband.

It threw me out.

It knows I’ve failed it, and it threw me out.

I have disappointed the tree and it angrily tossed me out of its branches.

I’m aware of my son and husband fussing over me as I lay there, unmoving.

  ‘Tina, are you ok? We need an ambulance!’ my husband is shouting to my panicked son, ‘Tina? Can you hear me?’

I can hear him just fine. I’m saddened that my beloved tree hasn’t forgiven me, but I shouldn’t be surprised. The tree is angry; it has a right to be. The wind is picking up and the branches sway above me.

  ‘I can’t find a pulse,’ I am shocked to hear my husband say.

I try to look at him but I can’t move. I can’t even move my eyes and my gaze is fixed upwards into the tree. I stare unblinking at the swaying of the leaves and hear the creak as the boughs bend in the wind. Around me, my husband shouts, and my son is crying. My head is suddenly thrust backwards and my ribcage cracks as my husband begins CPR. The tree didn’t want to lose me either. The sound of rustling leaves deafens me at first, and then silence and darkness engulf me, as I lay just inches above my parent’s ashes.