The Trees

I walked through the farm I grew up in; I said goodbye for a time; I said goodbye to the trees. The wispy little Vine Maple, not much larger than when I was a child, reminded me of the joys of childhood and the mystery of the world around me. I remembered the time I stepped out into the dark and a large elk stood under its branches, looking straight at me. I walked further to my sacred spot, the spot I used to watch the sun set every night, the place I found peace. With my mom’s dog business, it is much louder, but the stand of Hemlocks is still there, especially the large one that towers over the cleared field. I stood and the tree whispered to me of peace. I lingered a bit, thinking of all that I had learned and experienced. “Don’t forget us.” I took a sprig from its branches and walked on under the old spruce, a tree from which I never emerged without sap all over my hands and clothes. I also remembered dreaming up a story underneath it as a child. “I gave you creativity,” it reminded me. I smiled and moved on.

The stand of alders was next. “You taught me how to dance,” I told them. We had a swing at one time set up there and there was still a spot in the dirt where we used to slow ourselves down, draging our feet. The great Hemlock near the barn loomed ahead. “You taught me to love the trees,” I said. I would sit under that tree many times, enjoying its shade. I looked down the hillside, toward the trees our goats used to love to graze under. I learned hard work there, I learned there. I looked back as I left. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I will be back.” I knew the forest trees of my childhood would always be with me.

As I stepped out toward the house, getting ready to leave, I picked up a hawk feather.