There was an old oak tree several blocks from our house that stood like a grand dame with a thick trunk that narrowed slightly in the middle and, at about six feet above the ground, divided into two large limbs that made the tree look as though it was raising its arms to the heavens.  Its pose was the tree equivalent of Audrey Hepburn’s on the Paris catwalk in her red dress for the “Funny Face” movie poster.  Then one day on an afternoon walk around the neighborhood, I saw that the street was closed because one of the tree’s branches had fallen, blocking the street.  A sour taste flushed through my mouth at the sight of it.  My nine-year-old daughter shares my love of trees and this was one of our favorites.  When I walked by a few days later, the street had been cleared and the rest of the tree razed to the ground with only a stump remaining. 

            I hesitated, but I felt it best to tell my daughter about the tree than have her be surprised when she saw the stump on our next walk the upcoming weekend.  So after picking her up on that Friday from school, I explained what happened.

            “Can you show me?”  she asked.

            When I drove by it, she burst into tears.  I pulled over to comfort her.  I knew she’d be sad but I wasn’t prepared for this reaction.  It made me worry for her.  If she weeps for a fallen tree, how will she withstand the brutality, violence, and injustice she will surely witness in her lifetime? 

            Yet, at the same time, I understood.  I’m made of the same stuff.  Several years ago, my husband and I went to an Audra McDonald concert.  Hearing her voice live was like witnessing the divine, so perfect and heartrending that I couldn’t not weep no matter how hard I tried.  I was equipped with only one Kleenex that turned into a dull gray ball by the second song.  My husband offered me his shirt sleeve to dry my eyes and I took it.  As I wept, I tried to make myself feel better by telling myself that millions of people live in this city and the chances of ever running into anyone around me in the future was infinitesimally small.  Then McDonald started singing songs that had special meaning for me.  By the time McDonald sang “Over the Rainbow” as an encore, I was convinced she must be trying to kill me.  As a bit of a Dorothy from the Midwest myself, I’ve always loved that song.  I saw to it that that song was played at both of my parents’ funerals, and the Hawaiian version was played as the recessional at my beach wedding.  It’s also the song I sing at night to console my daughter when she’s crying and nothing else I can say or do helps.  I sat there blubbering next to my poor husband as people filed out, unable to stop and wishing the floor would just open and swallow me whole.  After everyone left, I slunk out of the auditorium.  In the days that followed, the memory of the music sent me back to tears and I wound up with a sinus infection for several weeks.

            I realize these tender souls of ours can make it extra challenging to get past life’s inevitable losses, failures, and tragedies.  I remembered being unable to eat in the weeks after my ex-husband left our apartment and the weeks that preceded my father’s death; in those days, I subsisted on a diet of canned liquid nutrition.  Now, I shudder to think of my daughter’s suffering in the future as she faces them.

            A few months after the tree fell when school was out, the three of us headed to the Midwest where I grew up.  We were driving after dark on a country road outside my hometown when my daughter saw fireflies for the first time.  I told her to look out at an overgrown field near a creek, and she gasped, mesmerized by what she saw.

            “That’s so magical!    It’s almost like fireworks!   That’s the most beautiful thing ever!”

            I had to smile.  Although most people from around these parts who’d lived with fireflies all their lives would dismiss that field as nothing more than a God-forsaken plot of weeds and bramble, through her eyes, it was a kingdom. 

The whole ride home, she looked out in awe at the tiny lights flashing like silent firecrackers exploding over the countryside.  I said a silent prayer that she might always see the wonder in the world around her.   And in the times life is heavy with burdens and grief, that she might look beyond her circumstances to find something like a firefly to astonish herself and restore her faith all over again.   

            On another afternoon walk, not long after telling my daughter about the tree, I looked inside the razed stump and found a flat shaving, about a half inch thick, that must have splintered off when it was getting cut down.  It was the size of my hand and in the shape of an almost perfect heart.  I took it home and placed it on the fence outside my daughter’s window.              

By Shanda Connolly

Litro Magazine

children Empathy family grief loss nature parenting tenderness wonder