A tiny willow branch wreath. That’s what I can give my son today.
I’ve helped make several of these little wreaths, about the size of a bangle bracelet, with treasures harvested from family and friends and strangers. This one, though, is special. It’s for my boy.
Some of the components are left over from a larger project, but the pine needles came from the white pine outside my bedroom window. The white pine I purchased with memorial money. The white pine I felt compelled to plant after reading Cooper’s favorite book, A Sand County Almanac. Cooper’s white pine.
This wreath is twisted and wound together; it can hold its shape. Is it a perfect circle? Nope. Still, once twisted into a wreath, the willow branch holds. The glue is for the extras—the decorations that don’t really belong but do add something to the wreath. The tiny cones from one tree, the crabapples from another, the pine needles from my yard—they matter, they add something, but they are extras. The wreath can’t hold them without help.
So, hot glue to the rescue.
Drops of glue to hold the cones, a streak of glue for the needles, just a dab and some coaxing for the crabapples. It doesn’t take much and the glue doesn’t show, but without it, the wreath is a bare willow branch forced into an ellipse. Without the glue, the twists and cracks and subtle force are on display. The extras are good. Some might even say necessary.
A few days ago, through my tears and tight embrace, I whimpered, “I don’t know how to do this.” Thanksgiving. The all-encompassing holidays. Life. I really don’t know, but I keep showing up, adorned with the treasures of my life.
I don’t know how to do this, but I know about glue. I know about the glue that holds me together—the glue of understanding and compassion, solidarity and support, words and gestures. My tiny wreath is the product of four different trees from four different yards, but wound and bound together with a little glue, it’ll probably hold, extras included.
Without the glue? Without the extras?
Well, maybe it’d hold. Maybe the willow branch would lock into shape as it dries. It can and does happen. You know what else can happen? That sucker can get brittle and shatter.
Glue. Extras. Holding it together.
I took my little wreath, Cooper’s little wreath, to the tree he was sitting under when he died. I tied it to a small branch, smoothed the rough bark over the tree’s wound, pressed my face to the trunk, talked to Coop, and cried. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I wish I could’ve helped you. I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re okay now.” Same words every visit. Then, still huddled against the tree and in true Cooper/Tonya fashion, “I love you, but I’m really cold.” I know what Coop would’ve said. “Jesus Christ, Tonya (what he called me when he thought I was being dumb). This is stupid. Just get in your car.”
I got in my car.
This time of year, I’m trying to grow strong; I’m trying not to grow brittle and shatter into pieces. I want to want the extras—the togetherness and traditions, the ornaments and trees and lights—but I know I can’t bear the extras without my glue. I thank God every day for the glue of my life, for their help holding together my wreath and extras.
A tiny willow branch wreath. That’s what I can give my son today.
A possibly-strong, possibly-fragile willow branch wreath. That’s what I am today.
Woods Writes 