five minute friday - tree

My dad and I about 6 or 7 years ago.

Go.

These are trees that surround our home. We have only two of our own, but these neighboring trees shade and cover and hug our property.

This is a hug from my dad, who passed away two years ago tomorrow from brain cancer. Too quick. Only weeks. Not even a sapling. Like a lightning strike and a fallen timber.

Here is a daughter who held his hand and relished his hugs for as long as she can remember (and recalls the bark on those hands, the hardworking years that showed) until the day he died.

There is the smile of a man who knew his love was strong enough to carry them through the worst of it, but was as scared as them while he was enduring it. When he wanted to say it out loud, he couldn't. He had lost his words. But we knew. We saw it in his eyes. Reaching like branches. The admiration, the pride, the generosity, the eagerness, the face of a man who loved passionately and experienced life so exuberantly it made you want to see it and live it through his eyes and heart and soul. The man who's mother says that I am her son. My eyes, my mannerisms, the way I speak and live and love. A gift to a granddaughter, those words.

I am a woman who was lucky enough to be raised independently, with the support and guidance of a solid foundation. A root system. Stand tall, be heard, share your abundance, show your colors, be free to be me.

As the seasons change and the leaves fade to brown, I feel secure. He is not here in person, but he is there in the very nature that he loved. Birds tweeting when I stand outside at night or run on an early morning. He's there. In towering pine trees and falling snow. Crystal clear nights and bright stars.

Memories like rings around me. My dad, my Wild Fig tree.

Stop.