Maple trees mean goodbye.
My little brother stood in front of me, dying. A jagged, red streak zigzagged down his face from just below his fuzzy white-blonde hair, down his forehead, and past his chin where blood dripped to his feet. His skull had split wide open.
I froze, unable to move or breathe—locked in the moment when my brother was still alive. When he was only dying, not dead. I remember a desperate yearning to save him, even while I knew it was too late. Panic, fear, and grief washed over me. I felt loss, overwhelming loss.
A moment before, we had been collecting seed pods under the maple tree, ensconced in a familiar narrative. We were primitive hunter-gatherers storing up food for the winter. This favorite game offered a euphoric sense of purpose, a delightful pulse of activity and motion with an undercurrent of rising urgency. Camaraderie was thick and delicious between us. We were pointing out seed pods to each other, cheerfully discussing the harsh winter to come, when he tripped on the tree’s exposed roots. His face slammed to the ground. When he stood up, blood starkly dividing his face in two, I knew it was over. My brother was dying.
I had to get Mom.
I remember running towards the house screaming for her to come help, begging her to hurry. I don’t remember anything after that for some time—just the sound of my own voice hoarse and ragged with screaming for my little brother. It was the only way I knew to say goodbye.
Mom bustled him inside and after she tended to him, I learned that his skull was intact. A protrusion from an exposed root had caught his fall, digging deep into his forehead and causing the blood loss. But he simply had a deep gash above his eyebrow. What had appeared to be a mortal wound was only a scratch.
Maple trees mean belonging.
The maple tree formed the heart of our little jungle. It shaded the swing set and sandbox. It hosted Missi and I during long afternoons perched in its branches. Its cool green canopy was our clubhouse, our fort, our retreat, our escape.
The maple marked the boundary between home and beyond. Usually, we lounged overlooking our yard and enjoying the bird’s-eye view of the jungle we loved. Occasionally, from the safety of our shadow and sunlight dappled branches, we would peer over the towering, dark-brown wooden fence that enclosed one side of our yard. On the ground, that fence loomed tall and forbidding. From the tree, we learned the fence was right to glower as it did. It held chaos at bay.
A rarely filled in-ground pool formed the centerpiece of the neighbor’s scraggly, browning, trash-strewn yard. We caught rare sightings of him—tan, stooped, with shoulder-length dark hair as unkempt as his lawn. We marveled at the confusion in his glassed-in back porch. Listing stacks of cardboard boxes, a large and shiny drum set, empty bottles everywhere. A profusion of sickly potted plants and trees obscured the view while enhancing the mystery and dread his yard inspired. Oh, the comfort of descending the maple and reentering my own clean, bright home friendly with toys and children and family.
The maple invited us to explore the space between the familiar and the foreign. Its branches soared higher than we could ever reach, but we frequently pushed our limits as climbers, trying for branches we had never summitted before. Some even arched over the roof of our one-story brick house.
We realized that we could—probably—climb from the maple onto the roof. I don’t remember if this had ever been strictly forbidden, but we had every confidence it wasn’t a good idea. Yet we discussed it often—the pros and cons, the best approach to the roof, the dangerous return to the tree. I didn’t expect that we would ever act on these plans, but the fantasy was bold and thrilling.
One day, however, I watched, apprehensive and admiring, as Missi purposefully scaled the tree and scooted straight onto the roof. She was building a doghouse for our cocker spaniel, Kelly, and she needed shingles. The roof was the obvious solution. She stripped two shingles—one for each side of the doghouse roof—and shimmied down to begin construction. The burden of keeping her secret from my parents lay on my shoulders like an embrace rich and heavy with belonging.
Maple trees mean goodbye.
Just after my little brother Elias, the fifth child in our ever-growing family, was born, we learned that we would be moving. Our landlords’ daughter was going to live in our house, so we needed to move. Soon. Coincidentally, Dad had just been offered a transfer from Dallas, Texas to Vienna, Virginia. We were moving to Virginia.
It sounded faraway and foreign. Movers would be packing and transporting our belongings. We would be flying on an airplane north. Flying up on the map. We discussed over many a lunch whether flying north meant flying straight up in the air, and if so, how there would be any land when we got there.
I remember feeling excited but also frightened as the move drew closer. What would Virginia be like? Would it have any trees? Certainly, no maples. I felt a lump at the back of my throat. I longed to climb into the safety and familiarity of my maple tree, to cling to it forever, to take it with me. Instead, I went outside by myself and stood for a long time under the tree. I carefully selected five perfect maple seed pods. These, I solemnly taped into my scrapbook. They were the only pieces of my jungle that I could take with me.
Rachel Brown
enjoys sipping tea, savoring good books, and spending time outside.
She is daily inspired to live more deeply and love more fully by her husband and two children.
2 Responses
You take me there and I can see and feel it with you. And, I can picture all your sweet faces! What a wonderful writer you are. I’m loving this project. Bravo! More! More!
Thank you for your kind words! There’s definitely more coming. 🙂 Let me know if you ever have a story to share!