We used to see it all the time, my favorite tree, when we went to visit Dominique’s mother. I haven’t seen it since she passed. I suppose it would be a long way to drive just to see a tree. But I think of it occasionally. It had struggled with the drought of recent years. I painted it when it was full, hoping somehow it would be the hydration needed to keep it alive.
Maybe I’m doing the same with all of my painting. Trying to keep the connections. Families branch out. Each limb gets thinner. That’s the nature of it, I suppose. But we can remain strong.
Some say it takes work, but mostly I think it just takes care. You just have to keep caring. Even when it feels like love’s rain has abandoned us, we keep caring. Is that foolish? Probably. But for me that’s not disparaging. When I wrote of my grandmother and grandfather falling in love —
He said, “I’m such a stubborn man, Elsie. I’m stubborn as a mule.”She said, “I love you just the same.”He said, “Then I hear you love a fool.”And he fell for her as only fools can,and the story of Rueben and Elsie began.
No one grew things like my grandfather. This mule. This farmer. I want to be this foolish. So I keep believing. I keep painting. I keep watering the branches. I don’t have to drive by to know it’s there. Love ever remains. Ever green. Ever growing.
