Upon the Hill

“Do you know you’re just like this here, pear tree?” My grandmother spoke out loud. What an odd question, I thought. A question many years later that I often pondered about. During the time, I did not even realize the lesson that she was trying to instill into me, but now I fully understand. “You see this tree here, all alone by itself, with no signs of growth?” She waved me over.

“Yeah, looks pretty sad,” I confirmed. Just a tiny stalk in the ground, with no signs of growth in sight. “Are you implying that I’m sad and lonely? Trust me, I have already assessed that one.”

With a simple shake of her head and an outreached arm, she pulled me in close. She smelled delightful, like the air after it just rained. Fresh like flowers that had just bloomed. Everything about her was just pleasant, like rich vanilla. She was comfort at its best, and it just set you at ease. “Yes, and no, my dear. This tree can still flourish, and so can you.” She gave me a warm look before digging her hand into the rich soil. “What we need to do is plant another tree, and this one will grow. In life, you need others. Friends, family, and mates. We are social creatures and cannot expect to survive by ourselves. You can say you do not need anyone all you want, but it’s the truth. Everyone needs someone.”

“Well, I have Luffy,” I exclaimed, pointing to our Corgi, who was attempting to bite off a branch.

“I swear, you don’t listen, child; one of these days, when I’m dead and gone, you’re going to wish you listened to me. You’re going to say, “I sure miss those lessons that old lady gave me,” You better listen and appreciate me while you have me.”

At the time, I tried my best to brush it off, as I did everything else in my life. Leave it to me to always try to put up some façade of a tough exterior, but even she knew I was more like a jellybean if we are just honest. Tough on the outside, but deep down, nothing more than a big softy. Grandmother has been gone for some years now; of course, like most things, she was right. I miss her and all of those odd stories, especially on days like today. Often, we would hear the analogy of grief as a ball in a box with a pain button on either side. During the initial trauma, the ball is so freaking big, but eventually, it does get smaller, but it never goes away. I would say it is big today, like the balls placed outside of Target. Big, red, and heavy.

Tomorrow, I have no idea how I will feel; I could feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, or I could feel nothing at all. But all I know is today, and today it feels heavy. As if someone is just sitting on my chest.

“Okay, you can do this,” I try to convince myself. “Baby, sometimes, you just have to look better than you feel” I am going to get out of bed today. I will shower, get dressed, do my hair and feel the sun on my skin.

“Hey, babe,” my boyfriend calls out.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go for a walk today.”

Perfect. “I think I know just the place.”

--

It had taken some time, but with some help, I had finally gotten up the courage to come to pay her a visit. We had buried her in her favorite spot that overlooked our land right on top of the hill. I had always found her up there, thinking. She always seemed to be at peace when she was there. It was only fitting. We even made sure to plant her favorites, pear trees, up there to keep her company. As she said, everyone needs someone.

“Hello Nana, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s been a while since last time,” I say, placing some flowers down.

“I have someone here that I would like you to meet, Jay; you guys would be great friends. He treats me well” I felt myself getting choked up. It is like I had more words, but they seemed to be trapped behind a prison that was my very own teeth.

As Jay took hold of my hand, I began to feel at ease. Any type of worry that I had evaporated. I knew for the first time, in a very long time, that I was not alone. That I had someone who cared for me and that I was in good hands like grandma said I would be. It had reminded me even more of her. Sometimes, she would just grab hold of my hand just because she could. Maybe she felt I was nervous about something; I usually always did. I was always the overthinker. “Worrying is unnatural,” she would say. “Do you think animals worry about stuff? No. The good Lord takes care of them, and he will take care of you too.”

For a moment, we just stood there, taking it all in, flourishing, and thriving underneath those pear trees that you loved so much.