Family Tree

My everyday reunion

Part of me would like you to think I’m a purely reasonable person. But mostly I want you to understand that I am not.

I believe the spirit-selves of my parents and grandmother and now, my recently deceased sisters-in-law, dwell in the enormous beech tree in our yard.

After my morning run, I wrap my arms around the tree’s trunk and conjure all of them, who manifest as knots and markings I have designated, and thank them for what they have given and continue to give me: my grandmother, wisdom; my mom, kindness; my dad, joy; sister-in-law Alison, patience; and sister-in-law Amy, strength.

I am unselfconscious that my neighbors can easily see me, spandex-clad atop a raised root, frantically hugging our stately tree’s trunk, thrice as wide as the circumference of my arms.

See, my parents and grandmother’s spirits relocated from the massive hickory tree we had in our backyard in New Haven, but when we moved, so did they. I was worried that I would be leaving them behind, but apparently, keeping an eye on loved ones is what spirits do.

I get that this isn’t a “normal” thing for me to think, much less write about, much less turn into a daily beloved and necessary ritual, but turns out I care less about how I might be perceived than I do about sharing something that’s a.) not mainstream and b.) deeply important to me.

The beech tree brings me comfort, makes me happy. I love that every morning, my run ends up somewhere past the confines of common sense, where what I feel is what I know, is as living as branches and roots, and real as bark against my cheek.