Trees My Dear Daddy Planted… Now Gone
In 2018, I sold the home in which I grew up. It’s a small and humble home, but it has beautiful hardwood floors (original) and had a backyard full of towering trees.
Key word: HAD
The current owners apparently feared one of those decades old trees falling on the house, so they had them taken down… yes, all of them. I’m so happy I had large photos of the image you see made for my sons, because they loved playing in that backyard, as did I. The last time I was in my hometown, which will be one year next month, I drove past our former home, and my eyes welled with tears as I took in the bald landscape and thought about how much joy a former prisoner of war had planting those trees and working in his yard.
Who knew I would grieve trees?
We can certainly attach ourselves to “things,” and when they break, wear out, or go away, we grieve, even if just for a few moments.
On the day I am writing this blog post, I trashed a pair of my favorite shorts (faded and torn), managed to break a plaster fish one of my sons made eons ago as I vacuumed, and retired 757-481-7535 after 35 years (my landline).
Letting go of that phone number was hard, but. I can’t tell you the last time I used it, and the last time I watched regular TV was this year’s Super Bowl (Go, Eagles!).
I am a sentimental sap. I admit it.
I took photos of my shorts and the broken fish. I did.
But that phone number?
Gone… no record of it.
My younger son said, when I told him, “You mean the longtime family phone number is gone?”
It is.
Ah, grief. It comes in little moments, like trashing old favorite shorts, shedding a tear or two over a broken plaster fish, and saying goodbye to a phone number that’s no longer yours.
Thank you, dear shorts, for providing a comfy fit, for keeping me clad on hot summer days, and for traveling with me on several trips to Hawaii. Hawaii will miss your presence (as will I).
Thank you, little plaster fish, created by the hands of one of my beloved sons way back. Thanks for the splash of color you provided my family room.
And to 757-481-7535… many hands pressed your numbers into their phones to call me or my sons. You served us well and kept us connected. I’ll never forget you.
Don’t think you are silly for mourning such things as the ones I write about here. We were attached, they served their purposes well, and life goes on…
Amy Walton is a certified grief coach, author, and yogini living in coastal Virginia. She is unabashedly a sentimental sap. Connect with her at amywaltoncoaching@gmail.com..
