"Money Does Grow On Trees"

It was six months and I know that everyone grieves differently and the length of time for their grieving is different. Was I grieving , yes, of course I was. It had been six months since my mother and father both passed after succumbing to COVID-19. My mother had contracted it first. Two day later my dad was diagnosed. They were both 70 years young and had underlying health conditions. They spent their last days hand in hand with no family allowed because of the pandemic. My mother went first and my father knowing he could not be of this earth without his soulmate left us twenty five minutes later.

Their story is one of a fairytale, met as teenager's at the local sock hop in the small town of Hillsville, PA. My mother was smitten with my father and my dad the handsome charmer had all the swag he needed to win over the beautiful tall slender brown eyed girl. They would become best friends and spend over 50 years together growing their family with the addition of two beautiful girls. Their love was one of the old fashioned kind you would see in the black and white movies or replicate the words too that top selling record from the 50's . My dad still opened doors and pulled out chairs for my mother and help her with her jacket before leaving or when returning home. It was that kind of love you hope to acquire someday when you meet your soulmate.

But for my sister Tamara and myself, that was not something that we could visualize for us now. We were both parentless, living in our home that my father built and continued to add on to like a leggo set . He did it all by himself, hammer to nail , board to floor, wall to wall. It is a beautiful house . My mother then added her special touch to the interior as well as the outside where she loved to garden, especially around her favorite tree . She was born with two green thumbs. It came so naturally to her and she was so good at it. Many envied her garden and would sneak by to snap a quick photo for reference in how to improve theirs. She didn't mine and took it as a great compliment.

" Tamara, I am leaving for work now, could you please try to do some housecleaning?" I said nicely , but in a deeper voice then usual.

"Sure, Tara no problem, after I just finish a couple more pages."

This being her usual response which meant when I come home from pulling a double , I would have to attend to the laundry , dishes and other household chores.

See Tamara was handling my parents death much differently then me. Being the older sister I did what I had to do so we would not lose the one thing ,the foundation of our parents hearts and souls, our home.

To think I would not like to sit in my room all day and night reading that "Little Black Book" my mother left when she passed. I guess you can call it her journal. She would spend countless hours writing in it and the journal was a passage way into her past, present and to what our future would hold, however we did not know that yet. My mother starting writing in it when she was sixteen and her last entry we believe ,when she still had some strength to hold the pen to her hand was the day before her death.

I got home later then usual, driving in a terrible snowstorm, I thought about how long I could keep this up . I really needed Tamara to step up and help out.

"Tamara did you check the P.O. Box like I asked you the past couple days?"

"Yes" Tamara Replied. That was one of her responsibilities the last three months.

I felt it kind of odd that there hasn't been any mail. That was my parent's box and there usually was something. Also, I know after the funeral we did talk about the house and payments , but we were waiting for the lawyer to get back to us.

I couldn't sleep at all that night, other than the pounding of the wintery mix of snow and sleet hitting my window , something was keeping me up.

I got up to make some warm milk hoping that would settle my mind, walking pass my sister's room to see the light still on.

"Tamara, what are you still doing up?"

"Tara, you should really read some of this. It is so sweet."

"What is so sweet?" I replied, a little pissed, because it was still all about my mother's "Little Black Book".

"Tara, dad wrote mom the sweetest love letters when he was in the army overseas."

"Tara, dad also drew by hand the house he would build for mom and their family when he returned home; our house."

"Tamara, they weren't even married yet."

"I know." She said with a chuckle, "That is even a sweeter story, mom said dad, who she called "Chuck" instead of "Charles" put her engagement ring in a lollypop!" Ironic since my mothers name was "Lolly".

Even though I loved hearing the stories of my wonderful parents it still bothered me that my sisters every minute was being consumed by my mothers journal. I understand she could not deal with them gone and this "Little Black Book" was keeping them alive to her in some way. Time was still moving, days were becoming nights, weeks becoming months. I could not continue to hold this family, that was now just the two of us together by myself.

" Tamara, I am getting worried." "It has been months and now with the sight of the beautiful flowers starting to bloom around my mother's tree, I could feel something is wrong.

" I am going to call the post office and she why there has been no mail in mom and dad's PO box."

Tamara’s face suddenly turned white and she looked like a ghost.

"Wait, Tara!" She exclaimed.

"Tamara, what spit it out."

"Oh-Awe, Awe."

"Tamara, What!" This time in a angry voice , the kind our mom use to get when we talked back.

"I haven't checked the PO Box in months."

My face red, burning with fire which was such a huge contrast to my sister's pale dead cheeks.

" I have been doing everything to hold this family together, I ask you to do one thing, one thing and you can't!" I yelled. So furiously I stuttered some of my words.

I went back into my room and slammed my door, first time in a long time I had slept with my door shut. My sister and I would keep our doors open as a sign that we would never shut each other out.

Next day I made my way to my parent's PO box. "Oh, I was going to call you." The mail lady behind the counter said.

I apologized and after seeing mail piled in the small mail slot. Got in my car and started sorting through the endless white envelopes. One in particular kept duplicating itself.

As soon as I arrived home I began to open the envelopes starting with the ones that had the same return address. As a began to read them my blood boiled. As I got to the last envelope I saw in bright red "Final Notice".

"Tamara, get in here." The first words spoken to my sister since are fight.

"What, Tara?" She said with that "Little Black Book" in her hand.

"Read this!"

She began to read them, one by one, out loud.

The last one, "This is your final notice. we are so deeply sorry to inform you that unless you can come up with the $20,000 in back payments you have missed and since we have not gotten any response to our inquiries or calls, which were made to my dad's cell phone that had been shut off after his death, we will begin auctioning off items in your home and the house will go up for sale on March 21st. If we do not hear from you by February 28th."

Tamara and I both looked over at the calendar on the fridge. I burst into tears as I focused on today's date, March 18th .

"How could you, I asked you to check the PO box, you lied and said you did, maybe we could have tried to fix this, but now forget there isn't enough time. We are going to lose everything, all of mom and dads possessions and most importantly, our home, our heart!" "But at least you still have that "Little Black Book."

"Tara, I don't know what to say I am so sorry."

I immediately tried to do everything I could , contacting my parents lawyer, the bank, everything. But sadly a little to late.

The day of the auction was here, I sat outside under my mom's favorite tree amongst her favorite flowers, in tears.

"Tara, I was just out front, they are auctioning off mom's painting now." She said still grasping my mothers journal.

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed

See that painting was done by hand by my father. He was so talented and one of his talents was oil painting. He had painted my mothers tree and the flowers around it before the house was even built. That picture adorned our house forever, showing how our home, family, love, caring, hope, strength and faith was ever growing extending like the tree and its branches. When the leaves change color and fall off they always come back every year. This representing us , we change and grow apart but will always come back as a strong unit that love each other.

"Stop, Stop!" I yelled to the fast talking auctioneer.

"Honey, If you would like to bid on this painting go ahead."

Something came over me and unlike my personality, I ripped the painting out of his hand.

"Oh, alright. Lets take a 10 minute break." he responded.

I ran under the tree with the painting next to my sister and sat done in tears.

The auctioneer and the local sheriff approached me and kindly asked me to please hand over the painting.

My sister said no, took the painting and out came her handy pocket knife she always carried with her that belonged to my father.

She carefully began cutting the material around the painting in the frame.

"What are you doing ? STOP!" We all exclaimed.

She slowly lifted the fine material. We all gasped. There it was hundreds of dollars of bills taped to the inside frame.

We could not believe what we saw.

How much money did that painting of my mother's tree hold? You guessed it "$20,000". The exact amount we needed to save our home, our parents home, our hearts, our souls.

The auction was called off, we began bringing the rest of the items into "OUR HOUSE".

I looked at my sister, for the first time she was not holding that "Little Black Book" but instead was holding my hand, squeezing it every so tight.

"Tara, how the hell did you know that money was under that painting of moms' tree?" I asked.

"Well, sitting under the tree that morning I actually finished mom's journal. The very last page of her entry was about how her and dad had saved $20,000 for us if we ever needed it. However; they were always afraid they would spend it if they left it somewhere in the house easily to be found or even in the bank. So dad told mom, we will put it under the painting of the tree because we would not want to ruin that by trying to get at it and mom joked, maybe we will forget about it "Because money doesn't grow on trees." They both chuckled.

My sister and I also chuckle quietly underneath our breath every time we walk in the sunroom pass the desk where my mothers "Little Black Book" sits under the oil painting my dad painted for my mother of her favorite tree . A reminder of how our parents love, care, and support is there growing and branching over us always.