“I’m home!” I called, wiping my muddy boots on the welcome mat before hooking my jacket over the coatstand.

“In the kitchen, sweetheart!” my mother shouted back. I pulled off my boots — mother always complains about using outside shoes indoors —  leaving them right next to the front door. 

The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, flames dancing in the hearth. My mother’s outstretched feet rested nearby, soaking in the heat while her needle pierced through the cloth. Her head turned towards me when I entered, eyebrows knitting together as her gaze flowed over my dress. I folded my hands over the dirt and tears, but it was too late.

“Mary-Jane Smith! You were at that tree again.”

My eyes skitted along the floorboards.

“I’ve always told you that tree was a safety hazard and now the town has confirmed it!” My gaze snapped to meet her eyes. 

“What!”

“Mary-Jane, the oak has been there since I was a little girl. It is high time they cut it down. It’s dying.”

Shaking my head, I glared at my mother, or rather the figure I observed through a blur of tears.

It was my tree. Mine. And only mine.

“You’re wrong,” I said, hands forming fists, I sprinted out of the kitchen. Down the hallway, through the front door; fingers reached for my coat. Then I sloshed over the lawn, cold dew seeping into my cotton socks.

 

I didn’t stop running till my tree came into view. There it sat in the middle of the field, branches lifted to the heavens, watching the world around it crumble — forest turning into farmland, fellow friends lost to paper and wood. It had no one left but me.

I slipped my socks off so that the wheat stems could tickle the soles of my feet. Slow and steady, I wandered toward the oak as if my sudden appearance in the darkening light would scare it.

Soon, I was close enough to brush my fingers along the mountains and valleys in the bark. I knelt down, feeling for the familiar outline between the roots then — after glancing around — revealed a package wrapped in green cloth. The material my mom gifted to me to learn how to sew, but I think there are much more important, practical, things to occupy myself with. Like daydreaming. Or reading.

My fingers brushed over the bundle, stroking it like it was Mrs. Green’s kitten. I unwrapped the package and gathered up the emerald material.

The book inside, I kept on my lap. What if the moisture from the damp roots damaged the cover? I wouldn’t let it! Mother didn’t know about me having father’s book and she never could. She never approved of him staying cooped up in that room when he came home, scribbling at a page just like she didn’t approve of my tree.

With the moon rising steadily and the wind picking up, I placed the novel in a nook between the branches above my head before pulling myself after it. Knees pressed against my chest and branches forming a comforting nest around me, I began to read.

 

I didn’t really understand the story. It was mostly filled with big words and long sentences, but it was Papa’s. Maybe I would understand it one day. 

If mother had found it, she would have burnt it along with all the other possessions in a fit of rage before the tears took over. Stupid Papa, going off on that novelist’s journey only to disappear off the face of the earth. Only to end up forgetting his book.

Mother never visits the tree now.

I wrapped my arms around the thick branch, ignoring the insects crawling over my skin. This was my home. Just like Papa always said.

Then sleep overcame me, the moon watching as the oak cradled me in its arms.

 

I woke up to a man grumbling.

“Mary-Jane, what are you doing up there?”

The morning light filtered through the leaves, blinding me at once when I tried to open my eyes. Eyelids fluttering, I could eventually make out Mayor Malden, standing only a few feet away, gaze aligned with mine. His suit was slightly wrinkled like my skin after swimming in the river too long — Mother didn’t approve of that either.

“Mary-Jane, I ask you again. Why are you in the tree?”

I sighed and sat up straight, back naturally rigid as Mother taught me. ‘Don’t slouch,’ she always said. ‘You’ll look like a beggar girl’.

“I was sleeping, Mayor Malden.”

“Sleeping? Why, don’t you have a perfectly good bed at home or is this some kind of strange protests that you youth get up to these days.”

My fingers dug into my palm, because I was trying to not roll my eyes.

“My mother was simply angry is all.”

“Hmh. Well, I need to go meet with Mr. Green. And an old bugger like me couldn’t chop this tree down by myself, now could I? Don’t want this oak flattening any youngsters,” he chuckled, giving a small tip of his tophat before strolling on.

Only when he reached the road on the other side of the field did I scream out my frustration. How dare he think that he could take away my tree! He didn’t know the oak like I did! Though he was the mayor, so what he said ruled. How could I save my tree if he was against it? He-

I paused mid thought. What was that he said about teenagers protesting? Would that save my tree? 

I jumped from the branch and raced home.

 

I sneaked through the backdoor, tiptoed through the kitchen and the hallway till it was right there in front of me. Papa’s office. I hadn’t been inside since that awful day last spring.

Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob, pushing the door open as quietly as I could manage. The smell of book and dust, even though it was strong, felt like a comforting hug. For a moment I just stood there stunned before I finally remembered why I was here.

I ran over to Papa’s desk, gathering up pens and a few pieces of paper. Let the protest begin!

 

I stood waiting for them at the tree. When they came with the axes and supporters I was ready. I waved my sign around like I was one of those women in the newspaper, the ones who made Mother always shake her head in disgust.

Mayor Malden soon put a stop to it. He simply stole my sign and gave me a gentle push.

“Let the grown ups handle this, Mary-Jane.”

There was nothing I could do but watch helplessly at them hacking away at Oak. It wasn’t just the trunk. They tried to pull it out by the roots.

“Plant some more wheat while we are at it.”

Every tug made me double over as if I was the one being stretched and jerked. Then the tears began, and once they started they couldn’t stop.

Mrs. Green immediately came to comfort me and I buried my head in her skirt. I knew what my mother would say about such a public scene, though why would I care? My tree was gone. Forever.

 

Dinner that night was silent. Mother glared at me disapprovingly over the table, but she didn’t bother saying anything. No point ruining Sunday dinner.

I picked at the food on my plate — swallowing was hard after screaming and crying my throat raw. 

“Mary-Jane.” I looked up. “How about tomorrow we go and visit the tree. One last goodbye?”

“You mean it?” I jumped up from my chair, scraping the wood on the tile. “Really?”

“Yes, Mary-Jane. Now sit down and eat your dinner”

 

There was a large gap left in the field where the tree had been. Even the wind seemed to have vanished with the death of Oak.

I gave my mother a side glance. Her face remained solid stone as I wept for the tree and all the memories. Did she not feel the loss of Papa’s presence in this place?

When my tears were all dried up, I went to sit in the middle of the large pit, right where the oak’s heart would have been.

The sun rose above me, making sweat drip down my forehead, but I refused to move. Then my mother tapped my shoulder and placed a small object into my hands. I stared at it for a few seconds before realising what it was. A seed.

Should I?

I dipped my finger in the soil to create a small indent before placing the seed inside it. A little bit of soil added on top.

 With a little bit of water and love this seed would grow. And maybe in the future someone else would have a tree like mine. Someday. Maybe I was wrong, maybe my oak was dying.

And maybe you needed to let go in order to grow.