The Blessing of the Tree

The Blessing of the Tree – A Short Story

I am one-half of a century old today, as I gaze out this window from the house where I was born. How could it have passed so quickly, I wonder? This ancient house, which is now mine, still sings with laughter and the cries of the spirits of those who lived here and are now gone. I see a lovely yard out my window where all the children played together. There is still the one largest tree growing out near the street, providing welcoming shade to all who pass by. But, for me, I am alone.

I will tell you how this came to be – an old woman alone in her family home. I grew up with many sisters and brothers. My father was a furniture-maker in our village, lucky and successful, and married to the most beautiful woman in the whole of Mexico, who was my mother. I was born less than a year after their marriage, and although I was a girl, there would be many more chances for a son. Besides, they wished to have a girl to help with the rest of the children yet to come and to be the chosen one who would care for them when they were old. It was decided without words. I had no say in my fate.

The home was a loving one where my mother cooked all the meals and bore the children of the family as a good Catholic wife was supposed to do. She was strong and loving and guided her family in the proper ways of the Church and the accepted customs of the village. I was a true and faithful daughter, helping the family grow along their way, as was my destiny.

One day, my father came home from his furniture shop with some seeds from an oak tree that he gathered from some branches that he was using to build some furniture for a wealthy customer. He took me out in front of our house near the main street running through our village, where he carefully planted the seeds. He told me that soon the seeds would sprout and an oak tree would grow from the ground. It would be strong and true and play an important role in my later life. He told me that I should make sure the tree was watered and cared for because it would be a very special tree that would mean a lot to my future. It would have a special magic in its heartwood. I could not see how this was possible, but I dutifully promised my Papa that I would make sure the tree was well cared for.

One by one I watched my brothers and sisters grow up, and one by one they began to leave home to make their own lives. We all went to the village school and learned many things and learned that there was a big world outside our little village. Every year, the tree grew bigger and bigger and after many years, I watched a brother or sister leave home, one by one. Some went to America when it was still easily possible to do so. They settled and married and started families of their own. They would sometimes come back to visit the old ones and their childhood home and village, but none of them wanted to come home and make the village their home. The outside world was far too exciting and attractive to exchange for the simple life of the village where they grew up.

I marvel now at how everyone in the family assumed I would be the child who stayed home with the old ones and cared for them with no thought of herself or the dreams that I may have had. How did I know and accept such a situation? How did everyone else know this thing? What was to become of me? I had no husband and no children who would look after me when I was old.

My mother was the first to start her decline. There was a doctor in our village who said she was beginning her walk with the spirits. There was nothing he could do. If it was something he could give medicine for, or repair, he would. But no one improved when they were walking with the spirits. I cared for her day and night for more than a year. Finally, she passed and we buried her in the Holy graveyard next to the Church. She was a simple villager, but she could have been one of the Saints.

Then it was just me and my father. He still went to work every day at his furniture shop, but his spirit was heavy without the love of his life. One day he came home with a beautiful wooden bench he had built and he put it out in the front yard of our house next to the sidewalk, underneath the beautiful oak tree. He said it would be a peaceful place to sit for all who traveled along our street. It was a curious thing to me, but he said it would be a place for people to sit and maybe talk with me while I swept our walk every day and tended to the yard. It would keep me from being too lonely, now that everyone was gone except for just the two of us.

More years went by and my father was able to go to his furniture shop less and less. He was becoming bent and tired and he finally sold the business to a young man who worked with him since he was a boy. My father had taught him all his skills at making the beautiful furniture that people came from all of the villages around to buy. He stayed home with me more and more, and sometimes we would sit on the bench under the oak tree together and watch the traffic and people pass by.

A few more years, and my father found his way with the spirits to join my mother – his one true love. Toward the end of his days, he always told me that the tree would provide for me in my old age, that he had seen it in a vision. I could not understand what he was talking about but soothed him and told him it would all be fine. I thought it was just the ramblings of an old man with a tired mind. I couldn’t understand how he thought a tree would provide anything for me in my old age other than some nice shade.

Most of the family came home for his funeral. The house was again full of laughter and life in spite of it being a sad occasion. None of my brothers or sisters had any question about the family home now belonging to me. I was the only one who wanted to stay and live in the village. Some offered for me to come live with their families, but I declined, as this was the only life I had ever known.

So life is passing by outside my house and yard. Everyday, I go out and sweep the front walk under the tree, keeping the yard neat and clean like I have always helped to keep it. It is not such a bad life for me. I have the Church and my work with some of the nuns in caring for people in our village. I feel like a nun myself, I just never took any vows like they did. It is the loneliness that is so hard to endure. Now as I enter the last part of my life, I seem destined to live it alone. What hope is there for an old woman to find a different life?

One morning I looked out my window to see an older, well-dressed man, sitting on the bench under our oak tree. His hat was neatly placed next to him and he was staring across the plaza at the house that used to belong to the village judge before he died. I was very curious about this, as few strangers came through our village and none so fine-looking as this gentleman. I wanted to find out more about him so I straightened my hair and I took up my broom and went outside to sweep the front walk as I did every day. I pretended to shoo away the feral chickens that dot my yard.

When I came closer to the bench with the stranger sitting on it, he suddenly turned and greeted me in an open and friendly manner. I hardly knew what to say, but I smiled back at him. He stood and asked me to come sit with him on the bench for a while. He said he was happy to meet one of his new neighbors. I was shocked to hear him refer to me as one of his neighbors. I had never remembered seeing the man before in our village.

I sat with him and listened to his story. He was the son of our village judge who used to live across our street – and he had left home as a young boy to live with an aunt in America where he could grow up and go to good schools. This was a few years before I was born so, of course, I would have never seen him in the village. He grew up in California and went to school and college there, and started a prosperous business. Now that he was elderly, he sold the business and decided to return to the place of his birth. He was still the owner of his father’s house, so he planned to move into it and live out his older years in our peaceful village. He was happy to meet a neighbor who lived right across the plaza from him.

We talked on and on, sharing laughter and stories of our families. I felt like a young girl again, full of life and unspoken dreams. He said his father’s house was still full of the beautiful furniture made by my father in his furniture shop. I told him that my house had my father’s beautiful furniture, as well. He said he so admired this lovely oak tree and knew as soon as he saw the bench that it was made by my father. He recognized his work and craftsmanship. He said he was drawn to sit on it while he waited for the workmen who would clean and repair his house so he could move in.

His workers arrived and we said good-bye. He said he was looking forward to sitting on the bench under the oak with me again, and sharing more stories. I told him I thought that would be nice and I was glad to have him as a neighbor. He took my hand and smiled into my eyes and said how happy he was to find me here.

I went back into my house and everything inside looked different. The windows looked clearer and brighter, and the colors of everything in my house looked new and vibrant. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe this was what my father foresaw in his vision so many years ago when he planted the oak tree with me. He must have seen that the tree, and the addition of the beautiful bench, would bring someone into my life, at just the right time, to fill the elder years of my life with love and companionship. Perhaps I won’t die a lonely old woman after all.

Gracias, mi Papa.