ROOTS

You died late autumn, early winter.

Since then, my feelings, my emotions, too, have been living in winter.

Dark. Cold. Lonely.  Can’t imagine feeling warm again.

Soon, it’ll be spring.  The promise of new beginnings.

Birds.  Animals.  Trees.  Plants.

Ready to bask in the glowing light of promised warmth and that days will grow longer. Brighter.

Then it’ll be summer.  Bright colours.  Laughter.  Trees and plants in glorious bloom, basking in the welcoming arms of the sun’s rays.

Birds from afar will join the ranks of the locals adding to the sweet symphony of summer.

Before long, autumn will beckon.  The days will slowly darken earlier.  Flowers will begin to lose their blooms.  Trees will lose their leaves, after allowing them to sway in the gentle breeze and adding their dry sound to the cacophony of angelic sounds.

The tree stands proudly.  Year on Year.  Waiting.  Welcoming.  Grieving. Surviving.

The leaves must come and go.  They must say goodbye to the tree.

This is how it was for you and me.

The leaves are my grief for you.

The tree is you to me.

You stood firm.  Strong.  Steady.  Always welcomed my return.  Never chastised my leaving.

I know my leaves have to transform, eventually.

Grief cannot stay the same forever.

However, I know my tree will always be my tree.

My emotions are in turmoil and I know you wouldn’t want that for me.  My sadness is a testament of my love for you.  And yours for me.

So, I’ll try and take each season as it comes.

I’ll perhaps not always control how I feel – my emotions are not on a tap – but please know, I’ll do my best to cope without the physical you.

Like the tree, I’ll miss the company of the leaves.

But, like the tree, I have faith that I will once again be together with you.

Perhaps, not in person.  That story line has changed.  It’s not the end of the story, it’s just a new beginning.

So, instead of being my tree, perhaps you’ll be the robin that visits the garden?  Or the cool breeze that whispers in my ear and blows through my hair?  Or the bird who leaves a feather for me to find?  Or the glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye?  Or the butterfly that suns itself on the stones round the firepit?

No.  It’s not the end.  You’re gone.  Not forgotten.  This is just your next chapter.  As it is mine.

Let’s see where this part of the story takes us.  Wherever it’ll end, we’ll always have our memories.

Your tree roots run deep.

So does my love for you.

My Dad.  My reason for all seasons.