These Trees

 

Do you remember 

the place where 

the branches come 

together on that tall 

hickory? The one 

out back of Mom-mom's 

house; the one we used 

to play under? I do.

I can remember digging 

in the dusty dirt. Digging 

holes that I played were 

bowls full of ice cream, 

bowls full of soup, and other 

fine foods. 'Member? | do.

You lay here, now, staring 

into this hickory, on this hot 

and sticky day. I know you 

remember that old hickory, 

that one back there - even 

though you were not born then.

There is too much of me in 

you, for me to think - even for 

a second - you do not remember.

You remember. I see it in the 

way you look at this hickory.

I see it in the way you are wide 

awake in the morning and in 

the way you love being outside.

I am in there.

And then there are all the 

thousands of trees you 

mamma played under. All 

the trees she held Great 

Council under as a strong 

and quiet child. You must see 

them. I can see it in the way 

you pull your blankets close 

to your cheek. I can see it 

in the way you sleep with your 

arms over your head. She is in 

there.

I know you can see the 

connections between all the 

trees and between all the 

moments we have lived on 

this dirt. You can see them 

as you lay here on my belly, 

on this hammock, swinging 

in this breeze, beneath these 

trees. I am sure you can 

remember them all.

8 July 1996