As a writer, sometimes, out of nowhere, inspiration hits and all you can do is ride the wave. This is one of those times …
For as long as I can remember I’ve had a thing for “solitary trees,” standing alone in a wide-open field, bare branches reaching out into nothingness, seeking a hand that doesn’t reach back.
Somewhere along the way I began to see myself in these trees—strong, independent, durable, able to withstand anything that life or nature hurled in her path. And boy did life throw me some curveballs. Nothing insurmountable but devastating and life-altering all the same. Broken hearts. Lost friendships. Dead-end jobs. Death. Failures too numerous to count or name. And then there’s the biggie: the loss of myself, over and over again.
How many times did I cry out for help? Was that only in my mind? Could anyone hear me? Was anyone listening?
I remember days of deep, silent solitude. Days where I spoke to no one, and where no one reached out. No shoulder to cry on, not even a hand. Maybe I’m to blame. I became a master at hiding my melancholy, my mistakes, my fears, my grievances. Instead I caved into myself, swearing I would make it on my own no matter the cost.
I slowly morphed into one of my precious solitary trees, full of pride and strength and even a humbled, quiet beauty. No one could cut me down. Oh, sure, they could break the branches of my heart, the bones of my body, but my soul, my soul was all mine, protected by my pale, thick skin and the warm blood running through my limbs.
Until one day he came along. He with his big beautiful heart, his breath-taking humility, and his quiet—almost selfish—selflessness. He who planted the seed and made me believe in love again. My husband. My soulmate.
It was the evening of our third date, lost somewhere along the cobblestone streets of Lower Manhattan. We’re sitting in a dark, empty pub, sheltered from the world within the cocoon of our booth. I remember nothing but him and the distant tinkling sound of dishes clinking together. He reached out his hand, I thought to take my hand, but then I noticed his weren’t empty. He lay the package on the table, alongside our long-stemmed glasses of red. Inside were two printed black and white photographs, each meticulously nestled within a bare-bones black frame.
One showed a solitary tree, set far back from the page, standing naked upon an otherwise empty field—empty but for the fog, thick and misty. In the distance I can see shadows outlined along the horizon, like tentative friends waiting to approach and say hello but afraid to break the silent symmetry of loneliness. The other revealed a close-up of two trees, side by side, leaf-filled limbs intertwined and stretching off the page, embracing me with open arms. A gesture of love and hope and serenity, and a whisper of “Welcome to my world, this is where you belong.”
In that moment I remember only the silence. I looked up, met his eyes, as the tears pooled in mine. The tears I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—let him see. He smiled but said not a word. He didn’t need to; I already knew what he meant to say.
No longer would I stand alone, a solitary tree against the world.