by David Armand
Last spring I planted a wisteria tree in the yard
with my father. It was the third time we’d met
in person, having known one another for only five years.
Until then, neither one of us knew the other existed,
but I had taken a DNA test on Ancestry and discovered
him, and since then, a relationship between us formed.
We look alike, we have similar personalities.
It’s really nothing short of a miracle.
And I still wonder on how fragile life can be,
how easy it would have been to go my whole life
without ever knowing him, nor him knowing
me. But it happened.
Still, I think
of what my mother would say about all this,
if she were still alive, watching. She never knew
this man was my father—I found him the same
year she passed—so I’ll never know how she felt.
But what I do know is this: my father and I
planted that tree and used my mother’s ashes
to fertilize the ground—it had been her dying
wish, for me to spread her remains in my yard
under a tree, though I don’t think she ever
had in mind that it would turn out like this.
Neither did I. Neither did anyone.
So just last week, after watching the tree
slowly grow and spread its wispy tendrils
outward, looking for sun and light, watering
it every morning and tending it, I saw
the first bud appear, tiny and purple, folded
in on itself, not quite ready to bloom.
And of course I thought of my mother.
Who wouldn’t? How she is part of that tree
and is helping it grow.
And how when it blows
in the wind, it makes me think she’s talking
to me. I wish I could say “dancing,”
but my mother never liked to dance.
She was more the type to sit there
and watch, silent, not saying anything
unless someone else talked first.
That’s probably where I get that from.