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On my walk this morning a ginkgo tree released her leaves.
No wind pulled them from her branches. No rain pelted them to the ground. She just let go. They dropped by the dozens in a yellow cascade, creating a golden sunshine shadow beneath her.
Bright saffron leaves steadily fluttered to the earth, just as they did last year and the year before. But much has changed since the year before – since the time before. Before the plague.
I lost seven friends. And my aunt. And my father.
Not lost. They aren’t missing. They’re dead. Every one.
Victoria. Mike. Jennifer. Glen. Helene. Jim. Lamar. Patty. Dad.
All gone.
I didn’t see these friends every day. They were the kinds of friends who inhabit rooms in your heart – rooms that have a time and a place and a community. Their names were written there.
In the times before, I would run into them in crowds without masks. We would meet for coffee, recalling victories won and lost, laughing through tears at our memories. We would plan our next project, our next party, our next….
During isolation, my friends existed on the social part of my media. In emails. On Zoom. They were ones and zeros.
Then, one by one, someone erased their names in places where I cannot see, in chambers of my heart where time and place and community have been sealed.
Victoria. Mike. Jennifer. Glen. Helene. Jim. Lamar. Patty. Dad.
I didn’t get to say the words, invoke the rite, pray the prayer to say goodbye.
I know they are gone.
(Not gone. Dead.)
I know they are dead. But how can I let go of what I’ve not released?
Memory lives in the ginkgo, its half-moon petals are ground and brewed and sipped. Her medicine heals us and helps us remember.
And that’s why on my walk this morning, I stood beneath the ginkgo as she showered her golden leaves on me. No wind, no rain – just a graceful old soul releasing her memory on my upturned face.
And I, in turn, let go.
(Published on Life in 10 Minutes, December 8, 2021)
Always eloquent and deeply thoughtful is your writing brand, Terry. Someone has said grief is like shrapnel in the heart, working out bits and pieces at unknown times and places. We can learn to let go while still savoring memories.
Thank you, Archie. Love to you and yours!