Amparo Atencio
6/28/20Not far from my house is a mile-long nature path that my son, Tony, frequently walked to reach a secluded quarry where the local teens would go to swim and enjoy their carefree lives on hot summer days. I increasingly turned to nature in the early days of my grief journey, so I chose this gravel path to walk in my son’s footsteps. I was striving to feel a connection with his spirit.
The walk provided solitude and time to process my emotions, which seemed to be the only solace I could find. One day as I walked, the gravel crunching underneath my feet, I noticed a giant oak tree with a much thicker trunk than the surrounding trees lining the path. Midway up, the large trunk separated into two massive limbs, forming a “Y.” This became my regular spot to stop and raise my gaze to the skies as I questioned, “Why?”
“Why did my son have to die?”
“Why did this happen?”
“Why did he not get to live out his life into old age?”
“Why?”
The leaves of the tree served as a canopy that muffled my cries in the spring and summer. The barren limbs during the fall and winter looked as forlorn and bereft as I felt. My walks continued throughout the seasons, and I continued to pause when I reached the giant oak. I railed at the universe until my anguish slowly turned to acceptance that there would never be answers to my “why” questions. Little sparks of fond memories began to surface and replaced the despair and deep sadness.
I remembered Tony’s passion for music. I remembered that becoming a paid musician had been his dream, his Plan A, his refusal to have a Plan B. I remembered the Battle of the Bands that he won with his band, Katalyst. I remembered that he realized his dream with the Delightful Desperados when they became the house band at a local bar and especially when they scored a gig for a New Year’s Eve party at Hilton Head, South Carolina – the final new year of his life.
I named the giant oak the Mighty Tree, as I contemplated its glorious branches. In them, I saw the image of Tony, the Funky Drummer. The two broad branches became his upraised arms before bringing them crashing down on the drum cymbals after an extended solo. Tears of love wet my face. The leaves of the tree in spring and summer became gentle caresses as they blew in the warm breeze, and the barren limbs during the fall and winter became his arms, raised in triumph, success, and joy.
I still walk this gravel path often and always pause at the Mighty Tree. I acknowledge the evolution of my lifelong grief journey. Now, I gaze at the tree and notice the scars of what it has endured. I see there had once been a third limb that emanated from the base of the remaining two limbs. This third limb was now a stump that had clearly been severed by a bolt of lightning. One day, I walked around the circumference of the tree and took note of its backside. A large gouge at the base showed burn marks where another lightning bolt had struck it, perhaps during the same storm. Climbing upward, a thick, furry vine of poison ivy wrapped itself tightly around the trunk.
And still, the Mighty Tree stands. It has survived the elements of storms and fire and more. Its strength cannot be denied. I, too, still stand. I wear the battle scars of grief: tears, a broken heart, a longing to share events with my son that will never be, a sadness and joy wrapped in the same heart at the realization that he will never experience the life progression events of his peers or of those who were younger than him when he passed.
The seasons of grief have evolved from despair to acceptance, to strength to carry on. I have gone from absolutely broken to standing strong, always identifying with the Mighty Tree in each season of grief. Still standing.
