"The Tree of Life" by Debra Lee

The Tree of Life

A tree fell in our back yard today. It toppled over the fence from an Oak Street property. It provided shade to the far back part of our yard for the past forty years. Of course, it was fully grown and perhaps a hundred years old even then.
Over the years, I lay in bed and calculated the trajectory of the tree if it should ever fall this way. I figured that it would miss the house, but might catch the deck. If our family were on the deck and we heard it snap, I thought that if we scrambled, we’d all be safely inside the house when it landed.
My guess was off a little. It twisted as it fell and missed the deck completely. It also missed all of Molly’s favorite flowers. Except for the fence, it did no damage in our yard.
“Are you all right, Grandpa?” the new Molly asked me. She was just three, but had already captured my heart like my own Molly — her namesake.
“Yes, my sweet. What’s going on outside now?”
“Lotsa people coming by the house to see the tree.”
“Molly, don’t tire Grandpa. He needs his rest.”
“I don’t need rest. I need to be out there talking with the neighbors about that darn tree.”
“That would just tire you out, Dad.”
“At least it would be an honest tired. I would have done something to make me tired instead of just laying here, trying to pretend to rest because you say so.”
“Come on Molly, your Grandpa is in a bad mood.”
“Don’t go, Molly. Natalie, please let her stay. I’m resting.”
Silence. Molly looked toward the door. “Mama says I got to go.”
She climbed on the bed and kissed me on my forehead. I closed my eyes. What a wonderful feeling. A child’s kiss. A child’s love. A child named after her great grandmother who loved me voraciously for a lifetime.
“Molly, you’re the light of my life. Always remember that.”
“I will.”
She toddled away and I tried to imagine what the people were saying about the tree. If Molly Dee and I could talk about it, we certainly would reminisce and laugh about our half life. We used to drive over to the community park from our old neighborhood just so that we could walk pass that big oak tree.
Forty years ago, the tree had broken up the sidewalk and the fence to the property that it set on. In those days, the street wasn’t as wide as it is now and the sidewalk ran alongside the street. The tree was in the front yard of the dilapidated house that Old Mr. Hutchinson lived in. I laughed at the thought. We used to think that Mr. Hutchinson was old. I doubt that he was seventy. We were in our fifties. We were still remembering our youth, afraid of the years ahead.
The tree was symbolic for us. Mr. Hutchinson said that the tree was full grown when he was a boy being raised in the house that was falling down around him now. Molly Dee and I created a story that the tree was the preserver of life, that’s why Mr. Hutchinson lived to be so old. Later on, we bought this house so that we could see that stately oak from our own property, thus prolonging our lives in the shadow of the majestic tree.
We had a good life watching the tree together and as the years passed, we forgot about the myth we created and came to believe that the tree gave us longevity. Unfortunately, Molly Dee’s battery either wasn’t as fully charged as mine, or God had tried a different brand in her ticker, because, she just couldn’t keep up.
I planted exotic flowers along the path that the shadow of the tree created, thinking that one day it, too, would give out and just fall. I wanted it to lie along a splendid path worthy of its magnificence. I chuckled as I saw how it lay along that very path.
At dinner, I ladled gravy, mashed potatoes, and cubed steak onto my plate. I sopped my bread in it and savored the taste. Not as good as Molly Dee’s, but then Natalie didn’t have the hands of her mother, although she was not a bad cook.
“Dad, I forbid you to eat that. You should just eat the steamed vegetables or a salad. Brad, tell him.”
“Nat, that’s the kind of food that gave your dad his ninety-five years. Let him eat it.”
I love my son-in-law. Molly Dee liked him, too. “ I’d like to have my pie a-la-mode tonight, Honey,” I told my daughter.
She rolled her eyes and said, “Fine, kill yourself, see if I care.”
Later, she kissed me atop my head as she said, “Dad, you know that I care. I know that this is the food you like; that’s why I cook it for you sometimes. I just don’t ever want you to leave me, especially over something as simple as gravy.”
“You’re a good daughter and you’ve made my years happy. You let me stay in my own house with our tree, and you took in your granddaughter after the accident.”
“The tree,” she began and a tear slipped down her face. I didn’t see it, but I felt it slide down my own cheek.
Natalie tucked me in. Molly climbed up on the bed and plopped down in the crook of my arm.
“Tell me a story about Great Grandma.”
“Her name was Molly, like yours,” I began. When she fell asleep Natalie picked her up, whispered to me, “You’re the best dad anyone could ever have.”
I watched the moon rise as I had done on so many nights. I must have dozed because the moon was high in the sky and lighting up the full length of the tree. I imagined Errol Flynn, the swashbuckling Robin Hood of the Silver Screen. Instead of his leading lady, I pictured Molly Dee. I imagined that I was holding the sword as it swirled and danced around a worthy opponent. The bad man fell off the tree and, using a vine that I created in my mind’s eye, I rescued Molly Dee and together we ran the length of the tree, which seemed to go on and on forever.

Debra Lee

Debra Lee is a prolific writer. She is a native of New Orleans, currently enjoying retirement in Atlanta, Georgia. Her recent works have appeared in Pigeon Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Held Magazine.

Headshot: Eric M. Taylor

Photo Credit: Staff