If you met my father, your first thought would not be that he is a “hippie” or a conservationist. He was a very cut-and-dry type of guy. He was a white-collar desk jockey, with the only spice in him being the occasional beer at church gatherings. However, he was far from mundane; he loved his wife and me above all else, with a palpable passion. The root of this passion and devotion to his family is understandable.
Throughout their early twenties together, Mom had several miscarriages. Every attempt to start a family was foiled by nature’s cruelty. Years of disappointment soon led them to an era of depression. Around this time, my Dad moved them to a new home out in the sticks.
It was here he took up planting trees in our extremely expansive property. It was and remained his sole passion, outside of raising his future child. Mom always described it as “a way to get his mind off things”, aka he was depressed in the ‘90s.
Well into their late thirties, they had me. They always joked about how fat I was, that I had been growing in Mom well before she was pregnant, that I had been eating all the other “attempts”. I guess it was the type of humor they needed just to cope with all they had been through, relieved at last. In fairness, I was almost ten pounds when I was born. Hefty.
It was this backyard that I learned to walk, run and climb. The spruce and pines grew alongside me, sprouting and climbing toward the sky.
Then there was my father’s pride and joy, the oak tree.
It rooted itself in the center of all its siblings, the first tree planted and the largest one by far. It was a wonder in the county. Within its short lifespan, it had developed rapidly and expansively. Its straight, thick trunk rose over sixty feet, coated in hundreds of healthy, long branches, and sprouted heavy bushes of immense leaves every spring.
Under this expanding canopy I spent my developmental years. I was delighted by the tree, which in turn pleased my father. However, it was the lone tree I was never allowed to climb. I learned this the hard way.
One summer, when I was eight, I decided the younger oaks and pines were no longer an efficient challenge for my climbing skills. So, I dared the mighty oak in the center of our grand yard. I was beyond the first several branches, easily ten-plus feet off the ground, when I heard my father burst through the back door. I nearly fell out of the tree and clung harder to my branch when I heard my father yelling as he approached. He had never yelled at me before.
I came down, red-faced and ashamed. Composing himself, my father sat me down and laid down the only LAW he ever explicitly gave: “Never, ever, climb that tree. It is sacred.”
And so it was to me from that day forth.
Years rolled on. I was soon a teenager, with little interest in the man-made forest behind my fortress of solitude. My high school friends were always jealous of the near-infinite hijinks that I could get up to in those trees. In classic teenager fashion, I simply shrugged and complained that there wasn’t much else to do at my place. So, before long, I began hosting friends, going as deep as we could get within the spotty forest.
It was a prime location for potheads and drinking, and only my closest friends enjoyed the luxury of camping. My parents were lax, to say the least. They were in an eternal state of bliss, for all I knew, as there were few times I recall them dismissing a request or a friend of mine from the premises. Until one Summer night, junior year.
My secret circle of buds was camping out with me, in my private green canopy. One of whom was a lot rowdier than normal. One too many drinks and far too much weed. Larson had his camping hammock tied several feet off the ground between two sturdy trees. We all eventually followed suit, laughing all the while. Thus, the idea sprouted, and Jim, another pal, shouted: “Wait! Let’s make a canopy city! Come on, let’s make all our hammocks in a circle so we can all climb to each other!”
This retrospectively lame idea got drunken approval from everyone. Including me. Until I realized which tree I’d need to climb to complete the elongated ‘circular canopy city’. I looked up at its strong, sacred limbs, anxiety sobering my senses. The one law I shared as sacred now stared down at me. I don’t remember who, or how many, but my stalling was rebuked by several slurred voices behind me. I didn’t want to be the buzzkill, so I complied. With shaking hands, I began my ascent.
With muddy shoes, I heaved myself over the lowest branch. My inebriation was resurging, so my balance was tardy at best. Shooting myself upright, I reached for the next section of the tree. I realized that I had already disappeared into the green. Doubtful, drunken whispers were below me. Shaking the anxiety from my head, I continued upward.
In a blink, I found myself on the oak’s crown. Looking over the countless moon-kissed treetops. Shouting below broke my trance. My friends must have realized I was far beyond the spot I was to strap my hammock. I wasn’t sure why I had kept climbing. Perhaps the taboo was too alluring once I had indulged. Soaking in the sight one last time, I began my descent. About halfway down, that’s when I slipped.
I felt my mud-caked shoe slide frictionlessly from the branch below. All of my weight shifted, and I went spiraling downward, my body smashing and cracking tree limbs as I fell. With a thud, I hit the last shoot, which broke my fall, as my torso wrapped around it. The shouts and concerns of my friends were drowned out by breathless gagging as I vomited up the night’s beer and liquor, while being winded at the same time. One shout silenced all others. Even in my state, I flinched, recognizing it immediately. With dry eyes, I glanced up. My dad was jogging through the treeline toward us.
Some of my friends ran off. Others helped me to my feet and stood by me, awaiting a stern talking-to. I was radiating shame and embarrassment. And its personification pooled by my feet, at the base of the tree.
Clutching my chest, searing pain shot through me all at once. Each weak breath was met with stabbing, icy flares. But as my father approached, another discomfort manifested. I felt a twinge through my heart, as if it had vibrated. Next thing I knew, I had crumpled to the ground, gripping my chest, wheezing in pain. Gasping, my friends cried out to my dad, uncertain of what to do. He pushed them aside, kneeling beside me. All while staring wide-eyed at the oak tree. Examining it.
It felt like every vein, every major artery, was flicked, like rubber bands, within my ribcage. Horrified, certain I was having a heart attack, I whimpered like a child for my dad to help me. His attention remained on the tree, scanning every broken limb and fractured sprout.
“Dad?” Still in the fetal position, I pulled at his shirt. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
He finally turned to me, his face a mixture of disappointment and relief. “No, thank God no. The pain will pass. The damage was minor… you’re ok. Just breathe.”
Unable to do much else, I lay there and greedily inhaled and exhaled, begging the aching to stop. My father, kneeling beside me, offered a comforting hand on my back as I heaved. His calm presence was the lone salve to my suffering.
My friends were dismissed back to their homes the next morning. I had been carried inside and lain in bed like an ill child, where I slept deep into the next day. Afternoon sun bled through my curtains, waking me up in time to hear my father stepping outside and marching to the back of the property. A dull ache lingered in my torso, along with soreness from my stomach’s impact with a tree branch. I turned over, determined to sleep the sun away. Sleep returned, while I listened to the faint whistling of my dad outside.
It was late into the evening when I sauntered downstairs, shame draped over me like a veil. I spotted my dad sitting alone in the living room. He looked up from his book and waved me over. Cringing, I obeyed and plopped into the chair across from him. Fully expecting an earful about ‘disrespecting his one rule’ and ‘endangering myself and my friends, I was surprised when he began with. “I’m glad you have such loyal friends. God knows when I was your age I didn’t have many who would stick with me when a parent busted us.”
I nodded, still bracing for the pep talk.
“Come on, get up. I want to show you something. I think you’re old enough to know.”
I followed him to the back door, where two shovels sat at attention against the wall. “Grab a spade. We’ll need to dig for you to see.” my dad said, grabbing one himself.
I followed my father silently as he led us to the crown jewel of the woods. Passing a few familiar spruces and pines, we halted next to the towering, sprawling oak. A fresh wave of shame went through my aching torso after I saw the multiple broken branches. Until I noticed the larger ones were now wrapped in bandages, like splints for a fractured arm. The memory of my father’s whispering the afternoon prior resurfaced. “Did you do that?” I pointed to the lowest offshoot.
“Yes. It’s…very important to me that this tree stay healthy.” He replied in an almost reverent tone. “And now, I can show you why. Start digging at the base of the trunk. Be very, very careful to avoid its roots. Place the spade gently on the topsoil, and slowly use your weight to pierce the dirt.” He demonstrated with immense care. Then gestured to me to follow suit.
The moon was bright that night. It shone through the canopy, dancing like electrified diamonds on the soil. The light, paired with my father’s ever-dimming work lamp, illuminated the delicate operation before me. Deeper and deeper we dug, each shovel load delicately upturned.
I was about shin-deep into the earth when I felt it. A quake. Soft and rhythmic. I stood frozen while my father continued the excavation. His process had slowed, grown more delicate. He glanced at me. I read his face and resumed my dig.
Another hour passed; we were almost waist-deep now. The rhythmic pulsing in the earth grew louder with each inch upturned. At last, my father held his hand up. “Stop. Let me dig the last of this.” Gladly I exited the pit.
Standing over my father, I stared over his hunched shoulders as he worked the remainder of the job. Suddenly, he threw the shovel and squatted, resorting to digging with his bare hands.
All the while, I stood there, entranced by the rhythmic drum we had uncovered. My enchantment was broken by my father. He shot straight upright, eyes fixed down upon whatever he had just uncovered. Eager to see, I slipped back into the pit. My feet were met with the vibrating ground, the sound echoing like the organ of a church as it bounced off the earthen cathedral walls. The quaking pulse had quickened, beating against the earth with systematic thuds.
“Son,” My father said, back still turned to me. “Look down here.”
With timid steps, I inched over to him. Leaning over his shoulder, I looked down with him.
There were roots. Thick, encasing roots. A wooden ribcage protecting the wonder held within. Convulsing within the mighty oak’s entanglement of life, sat an immense, human heart.
Blood-soaked dirt caked its moist membrane. Its valves and offshoots were connected to the very roots of the tree that shielded it. Each violent influx shook the turf it rested in. Now exposed to the air, I could hear each beat slosh and splash the interior contents along its intended tubing, engorging them as they passed through.
I gazed at it, my mind racing with incoherence. My legs trembled with each pulse, sending shivers up my spine. My father placed a hand on my shoulder, raising himself up. “This tree is your protector and your spring of life. Its limbs are your veins, and its trunk is your arteries. If it suffers, you suffer.” He sighed as he turned to my pale face. “As long as this tree lives, you live. That was the agreement.”
My legs nearly gave out. “Now you know.” He said, “I’m sorry it had to be this soon. But you need to understand.” He heaved himself out of the hole. I numbly followed. We stood together, gazing down into the open pit. “It was the only way we could keep you.” He continued, his solemn tone returning, “Your heart is with the earth. Nourish the earth, and it will nourish you.” He patted my back. “As we have done, so must you when we’re gone.”
A placed a hand over my chest, feeling my racing heart, while staring at the other. My eyes widened upon realizing it. They were in sync. With a shudder, my hand fell limply to my side. My father gave me space. Stepping back, he leaned on his shovel, waiting patiently for some reaction to sprout from my features.
Crickets and owls orchestrated their symphony through the woods. The buried heart provided the bass to the decrepit harmony. I stood, listening to this alien choir, my chest tightening as I watched the entombed organ quicken its pace. Blue veins pulsating, chamberways palpitating. I could almost feel the exact reactions from within my ribs.
“What should I do now?” I mumbled from numb lips.
Reemerging under the shade of the oak tree, my father replied. “Live as you have. But, above all else, remain true to this earth. And this forest.” He patted the trunk lovingly. “When your mother and I are gone, it’s up to you to take care of yourself. And that means this tree.”
With that, he began gently throwing clay and turf back over the pit. Digesting these revelations, I stood like a stock, silent and upright. My eyes fixed on the contorting muscles being slowly reburied before me. Stomach acid churned violently, threatening to rise up my throat.
I flinched back into time as my dad patted the last of the earth to fill the hole. The only trace of its existence was the patch left behind amidst the green grass; like a scar after a procedure. The ground was still again, yet I could not shake the memory of its quaking from my legs. Like an imprint, the shadow of the heart’s beating still tremored up my spine.
The remainder of the night is a blur. My dad guided me back inside, to my tense mother, who clearly had been sitting in silent anxiety since we left the house. With a loving hand, she led me upstairs to my room, where I was greeted by a TV freshly organized in the corner. A brand new GameCube was plugged in. Beside a collection of games and a generous bag of candy. My mom’s love had filled the bedroom, an attempted salve to my fresh wound. The gesture was unappreciated at the time. I was still numbed from my experience. I wish I had had the presence of mind to hug her. I was her baby, still a kid in her eyes.
My father knew better now. We never discussed the absurd situation again. What few soft questions I would pass across the dinner table were met with a stern silence. I suppose he wanted me to live a normal life, and this meant no explanations, no discussion of the ‘agreement’, nothing beyond a solemn stare across his lawn at the towering oak.
I recall the remainder of that first year well enough. Restless and lonely. For many long nights I would lie awake, picturing my heart, pulsing in the earth within its cage of root and soil. I would sneak out some evenings, when I knew sleep would never come. I would stand in front of that oak tree for hours. Staring directly at its tendrils burrowed in the dirt. Able to picture perfectly how they crisscrossed around that solitary organ.
Sometimes, I thought I could feel the creatures and insects slither and crawl over it. I’d shudder at the thought of countless, cold, tickling limbs of centipedes, or clammy, moist slugging of worms invading my mind’s eye. I could never tell whether it was all in my imagination or an accurate sensation.
My social life was marred for a couple of months, but I rebounded eventually. There was no more late-night camping in my backyard. My closest friends, the ones who were there that night, understood. Not that I wanted to camp, even if I was allowed. The thought of my whole body lying on the ground near that tree, with the only barrier being a thin sleeping bag, haunted me. Able to feel the earth softly drum beneath my head, ba-bump, ba-bump. Never in my life had I been so grateful to have a second-floor bedroom. It was my lone sanctuary from that phantom drumming.
Years passed, and the sting of the revelation subsided. The forest, although still avoided, was no longer a looming specter. Time normalized my strange circumstance, and soon I was a young man. College came and went, my parents aged and aged. I retained my vitality, only growing taller and stronger. By the time I was middle-aged, I still looked thirty. I lived at home, worked remotely, and cared for my now-elderly parents. The forest grew all the while.
My father passed away in his sleep at eighty-one. The night before, he had called me to his bedside. A knowing look in his dull eyes. With a raspy, ailing voice, he whispered, “Take care of it-… Take care of yourself, son.” I nodded as he offered a final handshake before drifting off to his final rest.
My mother soon followed, passing at eighty-three. Our final interaction was the afternoon before. Lying on the couch, she smiled up at me as I brought her a glass of water. A shaky hand grasped my forearm. “Our agreement has been a blessing,” She said. “Without you, none of this happiness I feel could exist.”
She emptied her glass before continuing, “Your father was willing to make that agreement, no matter its cost… I as well.” She looked up at me, smile contrasting her grave face, “We are off to uphold our end of the agreement now… Just know, not once, not a single moment in my life, did I regret it. I love you so much, sweetheart. Live a long and beautiful life.”
My confusion and anxiety emanated off me. She read this, and resumed, “Take care of that oak, and all its brothers and sisters. Promise me you will.”
I nodded.
“Good…Good. It was all worth it then.”
Before I could inquire about this mystery my father never dared elaborate on, she slipped into a deep sleep.
She passed that evening.
I buried them both on the edge of the forest. Inheriting the property, I felt no need to leave. Rather, a duty to my mother had revised my perception of those woods. I owed it to them to carry out that promise. I never did find out what I cost them, what they sacrificed to give me life. No books or journals in the house even hinted at it.
My heart continues to beat amidst that soil. Its oaken fortress grows in strength each passing year. Despite my body’s health and retained youthfulness, my mind grows old. A melancholy has overshadowed my life. More and more I find my thoughts wandering down a winding trail of almost hypnotizing meaninglessness, only to lead to the same location each time. The oak tree.
It’s planted squarely in my brain, its roots pulsing deeper and deeper into my grey matter. It’s not a malicious presence, but rather a beckoning. Almost two decades have passed since my parents departed to fulfill their debt. And I have enjoyed the fruits of that debt, physically. Yet, this yearning continues to enwrap my thoughts. And like the forest I oversee, it grows.
I am now almost ninety-four, in the body of a forty-year-old. All of my friends have passed on. My home stands alone amidst miles of forest, detached from the few remaining settlers in the county. Solitude has allowed these tendrils to burrow farther, and I fear they have reached my heart, for it grows nostalgic for the earth.
This life was a gift from my parents, and the soil. But it is ultimately mine, and I have grown tired. All my desires have been usurped by one remaining obsession.
I hold the very shovel my father used all those years ago. The wind sways the immense canopy that hangs over me. With a final, gentle push, I upturn the last of the dirt. Staring into the pit, I gaze at my heart, watching it throb with soft, calm jumps.
I must return this gift, and I am glad of it. This yearning has dissipated, replaced by contentment. As I prepare to return to the soil, my last hope is that this may reduce my parents’ debt, whatever it may be.
May my love for them nourish this forest. I am ready now. Tonight shall be my final rest.
If you happen to pass by my woods, please, please be sure to give my parents and me a wave. I am certain my heart will beat in gratitude within the earth.
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