Three trees

At least she told me she was cutting them down before she did. I got three years with these three trees- them and me- checking in on each other in morning and mourning.

When I was little in church, I never felt connected to god but I always felt connected to the way people would lift their palms up in such a way, toward something no one could see, as the ones on stage sang weepily about being saved from themselves. I tried it a few times myself to see if anything was reaching back toward my hands and no one understood why I was doing that. But these trees did it too. I always saw their arms reaching up in the same way- bent elbows, palms turned inward, with absolute certainty someone was listening. Someone was looking down at their hands thinking “what a good job you’re doing down there”. That’s all we want to hear anyway. I never heard that in church, but I heard it in the morning, in mourning, with these trees.

I once heard Maria Shriver speak about all of the trailers and vans and humans stationed outside of her home when her father was running for president for months and months and when he lost, every last one of them vanished overnight. All of his supporters, onto the next personality. This morning, the ones who believed in me were not there.

But oh my- the sky! I stretched in her presence and we both grieved the fallen but there we were, more open with each other, more vulnerable, with more space to move and a widened window into the wall-less home of the hummingbirds: “Come on in. We’ve been waiting for you” they chirp.

The three trees were my guardians, but the campaign has ended. The races were forfeited, I outgrew all the hats I threw my name into. And I am stationed home, no need for those tall sails because I am not running away anymore. The pillars that stood gave me shade and sturdiness and a still point to lend focus when my world was rapid firing. I see, this morning through mourning, that my guardians deployed right on time.

It is time for the sky. The sky and I.