The Tree

The Tree

I had given JJ the Power of Attorney thingee. For when I was not with it anymore. I had gone to see an old school friend in the next town for two days and he had swung into action. I arrived home and the tree was gone except for a pile of smouldering branches. A truck was chugging away, loaded with rounds of oak. My oak. It had been on the farm for ninety years, planted by my father, JJ’s grandfather. JJ was actually John Junior, his father also being John. JJ ran the farm now; my John having passed some twenty years earlier.

My John had taken over the farm, when my parents died in a car crash. We moved into the house I grew up in, from the old shearer’s quarters down the driveway. John, bless him, left his accountancy job in town and threw himself into running my family farm. It was rough country, hilly, scrubby and dry. Days were long and I had baby JJ to deal with.

The oak tree was my solace. It always had been. As an only child it was my friend. It grew to one side of our shabby, blue clapboard, green and verdant in summer, unlike the surrounding pasture, skeletal and menacing in winter. Also, unlike the surrounding pasture which tended to be a little lusher in winter due to the rain and cooler temperatures. Summer was a time for lying on a tartan picnic rug losing myself in ‘Anne of Green Gables’ and ‘Black Beauty.’ Sliced apple, home-made lemonade tilting beside me. I shared my inner-most thoughts, dreams and hopes. Not out loud. I was sure she could hear every word and yes, the oak was a ‘she.’ Winter was a time for clambering the bare limbs and eyes shaded against the low sun watching my father out in the fields and a dot on the hills. During those years, a tyre swing rocked in the lower branches, the dirt underneath, scooped where my feet twisted as I swung.

Then with baby JJ, also an only child, I placed him on the grass beneath, little legs kicking, the leaves throwing, dapples of shadows across him. I would read to him and sing. As he grew, we played games and had mini picnics. John kept the lawn underneath mowed short and the seedlings at bay. I swept up the acorns, away from inquisitive fingers and cherub lips.

John and JJ had no connection to the oak what so ever. In fact, they became annoyed with how I raved over her all the time. I loved to see her grow and reach for the heavens. I loved how she scratched the side of the house and then the roof. At night when the wind howled it was like she was talking to me reassuring me all would be well even in the toughest of seasons when times were bad on the farm. To John the oak was a nuisance, ruining the paint on the side of the house, filling the gutters with leaves, requiring constant trips up the ladder to clear to clear them.

JJ, like his father had little patience for the oak and her ways. He lived down the drive in a new build, where the old shearer’s quarters once stood with his wife Belinda and a brood of children. He ran the farm from there, while I stayed in the home, I had always lived in. With my oak. We were happy. I had JJ build me a picnic table, one of those wooden ones with seating on either side. I bought most of my meals, even breakfast, outside most days to eat under her spreading branches. Her canopy protected me from the sun in summer and her bare helmet let the sun through in winter, warming my aging bones.

Like his father JJ hated having to cope with the leaves and debris my tree liked to drop. He hated fixing the scratched paintwork on the house. I used to deal with it after John died but now, I was just too old. JJ wanted that tree gone.

Then, I started making silly little mistakes and JJ organised power of attorney. I agreed just to shut him up. While I was in my house with my tree, I figured I had the upper hand. They would have to drag me out screaming. JJ did agree to me visiting my old friend Alison and I leapt at the chance for time away from his prying eyes. Little did I know he had plans. Big plans. To kill my tree.

Arriving home and seeing the destruction, I fell to my knees. Guttural cries rolled up my throat and spiralled into the air thick with dust. I fall to my knees, snot and tears mingling and dripping to the earth. Betrayal grabs my heart. How could my only child do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Would I fight it? No probably not. If he had not done it this way, he would have used the, ‘she is not in her right mind argument,’ and the Power of Attorney I am going on about. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I growl. Do not give him more ammunition.’ I wipe my eyes and go to push myself up. And then I see it. A wee seedling, viridian, poking through the ochre sawdust. An oak seedling. She was going to be okay, my oak. And so was I.

 

by Wendy Taylor