I was so distraught when the majestic oak died and was taken down two years ago. I had chosen that particular grave site because I knew the grand tree would stand over you, shielding you from the sun in summer months. Your grave had been marked by Nature herself. Indeed, many’s the time I’d leave a bouquet of acorns, leaves, and bits of the trunk to decorate your stone. Safely secured in its crevices along the upper reaches of the trunk, were the acorns “squirreled away” for the winter months Ŵ hundreds of them. And the woodpeckers, I’d marvel to hear them above me, peck-peck-pecking in search of insects.
And then a few months later — the groundskeeper planted a sapling just where your old oak had stood, a beautifully shaped young tree. As the young oak established herself, I’d bring water every visit, and then trace my fingers along her trunk to feel its texture. When an invasion of white moths attacked the cemetery last summer, I’d shake the little tree of the moths and pluck off the caterpillars. I won that battle. Our sapling never lost her leaves like the other, older oaks. As suddenly as the invaders had come, they were gone.
Someday I will join you. And then as the oak grows, her roots will entwine this common grave. Her trunk will again provide niches for animals to store the fallen acorns. The branches will host woodpeckers, doves, and the occasional red-tailed hawk.
Love, Celeste
