Imaginary Future

Three years ago we needed to clear brush and saplings from behind our house to make room for a new septic system. It’s not an elegant sounding thing, a septic system. But our elegance is greatly reduced without a way to deal with shit. Elegance saved is elegance gained so perhaps a septic system is an elegant thing after all.

The field lines for the system weaved back and forth, trenched through the dirt, until it arrived at the base of a tulip tree. This tree towered over the surrounding earth, demanding its right to exist. Tall, straight, pale trunk, I empathized with it. We kept it. Every day since the brush clearing we had a view of the tulip tree from our kitchen window. Every morning while making coffee it caught a small share of our attention. Every evening while doing dishes, a tiny part of us. We could imagine it years from now. Taller, more branches, more shade, its future stable and expected. It was there long before we’d moved into our home. It would be there long after we moved out.

When I say we, I mean my spouse Rachel and I. We replaced our septic system. We dealt with shit. Our shit. Other people’s shit. We worked together. We had children together. We lived life and imagined our future together. We imagined it as easily as one imagines the future of a tree.

Rachel was pronounced dead on May 4, 2019 at 2:52AM CDT. This morning, May 4, 2020, while making coffee, I discovered I lost our tulip tree in a storm last night. I don’t know exactly what time. For the tree I have no official certificate. No longer tall, it’s now long. Fallen awkwardly, leaning on lesser trees as it slowly dies and finds its way to the earth.

What an odd thing to write about on this, the first anniversary of Rachel’s death. What an insignificant grief I feel for this loss. This tiny drop of a loss compared to the ocean of other losses. How dare I feel this when there are so many bigger things to feel. How dare I give this loss time when others have lost more. It’s an odd thing to write because grief is an odd thing. It tempts me with the sweet smell of solace if only I taste it, yet it’s bitter and berates me with guilt if I indulge. How dare I? Well friends, I dare. Absolutely I dare. I dare to grieve that fucking tree.

That lesser grief changes nothing about other griefs. It steals nothing from others grieving. And to those of us who need it, I hereby give us permission: We may grieve trees.

I can’t imagine a better way to remember Rachel than to remember how much she cared about others. About you. You who lost family. You who lost marriages. You who lost jobs, pets, plants. You who lost community. You who lost an author you never knew. You who lost a friend.

I can’t imagine a better way to remember her than to remember you who give birth. You who continue the work. You who bake bread. You who escape oppression. You who write. You who find love, sign contracts, succeed. You who raise kids. You who care. You who put good things into the world.

Rachel’s dead. I can’t fix it. The greatest gain I’ve found to wring from our collectively drenched grief cloth is to empathize with others who have lost. It’s ok to grieve. It’s ok to stay still. It’s ok to move forward. It’s ok to deal with our shit. Perhaps dealing with shit is more elegant than we realize.

I know what it means to lose a future so I know what I’m about to ask is no small request. I ask it nonetheless. I ask that we allow ourselves the grace to embrace the past, the generosity to share griefs in the present, and the fortitude to invent a new imaginary future.