Autumn Tree

When I think back to my childhood, one moment stands out more than any other. I think of it every time the seasons change and the winds carry the cold taste of autumn through the valley. Perhaps I think of it now, while looking over what we started and how far it’s come, because I’ve been thinking of my mother. Her smile was warm as sunlight the day we planted the autumn tree, and she whispered to me how it would be the start of something great. She would have wept if she could see this place today, if she could see the fruit of what she first sowed. It was her idea to buy this house all the way out in the middle of an empty valley; my father had no vision - he couldn’t see what she could. I remember them fighting a lot about moving here, but in the end, Dad knew the only choice he had in the matter was if he’d join her or not. 

We planted the tree the day we moved in, and it was Mum’s idea to put it out the back so I could watch it grow from my bedroom window. The soil was hard and rocky back then; Mum had to stomp on the shovel to break through the top layer of dirt. Once we had the hole started though, her and I got in there with our hands. She always said that touching the earth with your hands brings you closer to it. She was right. With my hands in the earth, I could feel the vibrations of the past. I could touch all the life that had passed through this valley since the beginning of time. It took millions of years for that life to fall, break down, build up, and then end up caught underneath my fingernails. I remember wondering whose fingernails I would end up stuck in and if they’d wash me straight down the drain as my mother did. I promised her that day that I would teach my children to touch the earth with their hands as well. 

After we planted the autumn tree my father gave in and told my mother she was right to buy this place. That tree started everything. The three of us went out every weekend to plant a new one, and by the time Mum got sick she had the wild garden she’d always dreamed of. After she died my father couldn’t do it anymore, it made him too sad to see her garden growing without her. I felt connected to her out there though; with my hands in the earth I felt as though I was holding hers, so I continued our tradition myself. My father aged and I brought my own family into this house. I taught them to touch the earth with their hands as I’d promised my mother I would. With each pair of hands planting trees and seeds week after week, the garden grew into a forest. My children played and explored and planted until they grew old enough to leave and start their own families. I don’t see them all that much these days, but every morning I walk out onto the veranda and look over the forest we created together. The wind still carries the chill of autumn through the valley, but now it is weighted with the musky-sweet scent of fallen leaves and treasured memories. The autumn tree stands apart from the rest, tall and strong as my mother once did. Its roots run deep into the earth, drawing on all the life that’s passed through here before, destined to do the same for all that is to come.