There’s a woman I know. She’s a warrior. She experienced a lot of trauma during her lifetime. But she rose above it all. She thrived. And then one day, her father died. She was very sad. For a period of time. But she carried on. Valiantly.

Around two years later, her beloved dog fell ill. She was very sad. For a period of time. Then, almost immediately after her dog died, her health began to fail. She couldn’t get out of bed.

Her legs were no longer working. She could not walk. She could not stand. It was real. But there was no medical explanation for it. Perhaps she simply could not stand to bear the pain and grief any longer…

… I have a tree. It’s a beauty. My majestic muse. Silently watching me through the back door for the past 29 years. Providing shade. Supplying shelter for countless songbirds. Lending a limb for my children’s swings, and a sturdy trunk for their tree house.

I have known that this tree is unwell, for a period of time. I have known that it has to come down. And now, the appointment has been made. Tomorrow is the day.

I have felt a far-off feeling, for a period time, which has moved to the forefront today. What if this tree is my dog?

I know it’s not. I know that. It’s not. It’s probably not. But I also know that trauma and grief work in strange ways.

I know that I’ll be emotional tomorrow while I watch them take this tree down, limb by limb. As the memories flood into my head and heart, one by one. I know this.

I know that it will stir up all of the sadness and grief that rests there, at the root of me. And I know I won’t cry as hard as I want to. I won’t feel it as deeply as I should. I won’t let it all out. The sadness will linger. For a period of time.

The blossoms and blooms will be gone. The leaves. The branches. The limbs will be gone. The trunk, gone. But not the roots. The roots will remain. Underground. Deep and wide as the tree itself. Forever.

Underground. Deep and wide as the thing itself. Forever.

I know this.