Today’s prompt: Your world is entirely new, now. It’s not the same place it was before death entered your life and your home. Not only do seasons change the landscape, but familiar landmarks come and go. How you connect with the place around you has changed, which also changes the place itself. Both literally and figuratively, the one who has died might not recognize this place where you live now. If you’ve actually picked up and moved, there’s a whole new world to introduce.
Imagine writing this letter to the one you’ve lost.
What would you show them in this new “home” town?
- Which landmarks would you show?
- What are the most notable features?
- Are there new historic sites?
- After you narrate the tour, consider ending with the line: “…which is where I would absolutely take you.”
You remember The Farm, don’t you, Coop? Of course you do; you loved it here. Well, it’s changed a little since August 24th. It’s not exactly as it was on your last day. Everything is slower. Sadder. We are still adapting. Let me catch you up.
There are beautiful new windchimes hanging on the front porch. The almost-aunts, Mary and Shellie, sent them. We think of you each time they play their sweet tinkly song.
One of the most notable changes is the creation of an area we call Cooper’s Woods. People were so generous when you left, Coop. We had many gift cards designated for purchasing trees. People knew you, knew you loved trees. Now, you have a woods all your own. We decided to plant the trees at the farm because it’s as close to permanent as we can get. Even though we didn’t all grow up there, it’s home for all of us. You know; it was home for you. Still is.
The area where my great-grandma’s trailer sat has been redesignated as Cooper’s Woods. CJ is going to make a sign for the area, using this picture for the design. I don’t know if I ever told you, but I love this picture. You had such a good eye.
Papa and ET had the hackberry tree taken down before we could plant the new trees. Once that was done, the new trees went in. It’s a good variety of trees–bur oak, white oak, sugar maple, river birch, and more. It’ll be lovely and peaceful. Do you approve? I hope so.
Just down the hill from Cooper’s Woods is where we had a wiener roast on Thanksgiving. Stupid covid. We were worried about making Papa and ET sick, so we stayed outside. Luckily, the weather wasn’t bad. We just wanted to be together.
For your celebration, we set up chairs just down from the deck. Your SIU Forestry friends sat on the bank. We even hung up your camping hammock that night and put the black velvet bag that held your ashes in the hammock. Your friends hung out with you in the time before the service. You camped one last time. Now, ET hugs a hammock tree every time she walks through that area. Your hammock is packed away, but we still feel you there.
ET is trying to grow bur oak, snugged up against the barn and covered with mesh, from acorns Uncle Lyndall had. We will know in a few months if the acorns turned into trees. If they did, we will take them up the hill where we scattered your ashes. There are already two bur oak planted there. We would like a grove. A grove of pioneer trees. Wouldn’t that be perfect?
Across the road, Papa has rearranged things in the big barn. Yes, the 4-wheelers, tractors and mowers are there, but it’s also the crying barn. We all search for our safe spaces. Things have changed in 21 weeks.
We scattered some of your ashes under the gnarled old maple tree up the hill. I love that tree. So did you. We’d talked about that hillside being a great spot for a cabin. There’s no cabin, but you rest beneath that old maple. What a view. From that hillside, you can see the house, the creek, and all the way past Steve’s to Centennial Hill. And yes, there’s a bit of you in the creek, just as you asked. I couldn’t throw all of you in there, though.
The tiny bur oak are close to that same spot. We put fence panels around them so the deer wouldn’t eat them. You know bur oak, though; once they get a little bigger, they’ll be rugged. The deer will be no match for the bur oak bark. You should’ve seen those little trees in the fall! The trees were barely twigs, but the leaves were full size. It was a glimpse of things to come–a promise of future growth and strength.
So much is visible from what I now think of as your hill. Your hill . . . which is where I would absolutely take you.
Woods Writes 