I knew a family who planted a tree for each of their children. I never forgot how dear it was to see their Christmas picture as the small forest grew. While I wasn't smart enough to do it for my own offspring, there is a Redwood tree in the field where John and I were wed. It was planted in honor of my father from his society in San Francisco. I drove by it the other day. It is grand. The branches spread out like his arms did each Sunday at the end of church, offering a benediction to every bowed head in the room. 

I went for a walk last week and beheld a tree, growing quietly in the woods. I pondered its willingness to provide stability to the soil, and shade for flowers that thrive on that kind of light. Some trees even offer up hazel nuts, or apples, or showy white blossoms in spring. There are many months in the year when trees are sleeping, or bare. But regardless they are still part of the understory, a biological voice in the symphony of vegetation. 

My marriage feels like a solitary tree. Neither the oldest nor the most fruitful relationship on the hillside it offers up a bit of shelter, and contributes to the collective breath. Today I feel rather empty, more cognizant of the dreams that never took root than any that flourished. 

But maybe if it is enough for a sapling it can be enough for me.