Taking shade
at the brown picnic table
at the far corner of
TomÂ’s lawn
by the line fence
near the main street
and beneath the large Manitoba Maple
over a hundred years old, he estimates
Tom and I enjoyed the July breeze
on a sultry Sunday afternoon
restoring our energy and spirits
after trying weeks of health concerns
for both of us

high above us stretched the screened-in
black trimmed verandah
against the white exterior of the top floor

below it the small front porch and steps
graced by the pillars and white paint, black trim

weÂ’d sat here like this
countless afternoons or evenings
on the times together
through summer into fall now summer again, since
IÂ’d met Tom, my friend whoÂ’s eighty-two
whose wife Martha now lives “away”
the involuntary estrangement
due to Alzheimer's

on that one afternoon
breaking up the stretches of his
solitude, and what Tom calls “killing time”
weÂ’d chatted over and over
about the landscape and architecture
the tomato and marigold garden
the squirrels and crows
the tree friends of varied species
honoring our view
the lilac bushes

and about the people
passing the corner lot
on bikes, in cars and on foot

that Sunday break became one of those times,
that had become rarer for us now
but much like the first day
he had brought me here
when heÂ’d shared
MarthaÂ’s presence with me

Tom stretched his arm out
and pointing
toward the front gate
near the cement walk
a few feet from us,
he spoke in a tone
rich with pride
and a simple somethingelse

“That’s Martha’s tree.”

IÂ’d passed it every time
I took the front path to the door
or whenever IÂ’d left that way to take
his buggy back to the grocery store
or waited there, for Meals on Wheels
to pull up to bring Tom's lunch

smaller than the others on the property
a low-hanging soft green tree
more delicate somehow
standing by the entranceway
from the sidewalk
and giving generous shade
to the glassed-in front porch
where TomÂ’s exercise bike
is parked

I wondered if Martha had chosen the site
to beautify the path
approaching their colonial home
or to cool and enhance
the front window view

had she expressed the need for one
for weeks, or was it a spontaneous inspiration?
I restrained from asking

IÂ’ve learned when it comes to her
to let Tom be the gauge
of how much should be said
or inquired about

she endures a living death
apart from him
after years of his care
until the disease grew into a monster
they could not control
and took her away to
the long-term care institution

even when he visits her there
the ailment dominates
keeping him a stranger to her
imposing that distance
between them now; except for miracle moments
and bonds he works to build
or bring back
tenderly, taking her hand

as he did for the family photograph
when their son brought his new bride
his dad and the bridal party to the “home”
to include Martha in his wedding

but sheÂ’s still TomÂ’s cherished wife
who was always a fine generous woman, married to
a man of the same character
everyone from all their boarders past to present
to their children and neighbours, say
but no-one had to tell me

heÂ’s rich with anecdotes and journals
he revives orally for me when feels up to it

at eighteen she became his bride
heÂ’d known it would happen
from the first evening they met

they grew together as a couple
whoÂ’d help out anyone in need

raised a happy family
suffered the loss of one grown son
in a car accident
another Tom rescued from a fire
in his upstairs bedroom
years ago

some people think thereÂ’s no such thing
as lasting love in marriage, these days

I donÂ’t inquire much
thereÂ’s a line IÂ’ve learned to watch for
that pulls him into the territory of heartbreak
but I love to listen to his tributes
and their humorous or touching memories
when he opens up and sets them free
on the air, heaven scented on the lilac breeze
or in the fall
scattered in shy whispers amid the acorns

I wish that she could hear him
perhaps she does
I often sense her presence
seeming to welcome mine

sheÂ’s given me signs
like the note of hers
we found once, telling him to give
it (her winter scarf)
to the girl in the white chair,
(where IÂ’d just been sitting)

“That’s Martha’s Tree?” I repeated
on that Sunday

it was all I needed to know

“Yup, that one, over there.
It’s a Manitoba Maple, too, ” he offered
adding that she had started it
as a mere twig

the other Manitoba and the old oaks dwarf it
a juvenile compared to
the giants across the lawn

wordlessly, we sat a while
reverent attendants at a ceremony
listening to the breeze lift the leaves
over the sidewalk at the gate
as I imagined all the plans and dreams
the whys, the anticipation
in the tucking into the soil here
of her hopes
for that plant
that couple
and their three sons, this home

surely, deep down within its roots
it still remembers
her nurture
MarthaÂ’s tree

06/16/2002

Posted on 07/08/2005
Copyright © 2024 Maureen Glaude