Looking around the garden one last time, Rosie hesitated by one specific tree that carried very poignant memories. The weeping cherry tree. Still quite a small tree even though it must be about 20 years old. “Well, Emma’s 19 and it was 2 years before she was born so it’s exactly 21 years ago that we planted it” she calculated out loud. Every spring the elegant drooping branches cascaded pink blossom. A momento of a life that might have been. The first anniversary, when the tree was a mere stick, the buds bursting in April was a painful reminder of the baby that Rosie miscarried. But over the seasons as the tree had grown and family life had become so hectic there has been little time to dwell. All the same, Rosie now felt a touch of sadness, and she hoped that the new tenants would treat this special tree with respect.
It was as if the painful feelings of losing her first baby had faded away over the years and become a part of what made Rosie the person she was now. As if all the things that happen to you in your life compost away in your head breaking down into nutrients that fuel new growth and confidence. As if the tough experiences we face become the egg shells and mango stones of our mental compost heap. These take the longest to decompose but eventually they produce a rich mulch when they’re mixed with the more mundane grass clippings and potato peelings of everyday life.
Shakespear's Anniversary.
7 years ago
1 comment:
I think this is really a very successful piece. I love the bit about the buds bursting into bloom. They have come to fruition but not the baby that has miscarried. The compost heap metaphor is wonderful. It is sustained and very elegantly developed and expresses the process of grieving almost painfully well. Fantastic!
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