The death that shocks me the most is the death of trees. I find it much easier to accept the death of animals, pets, and people. The death of people and animals close to me affects me much more than the loss of a tree, but there is something so tragic in the death of a tree. I find it deeply unnerving.
Otosan is a landscape architect, so growing up our yard was full of beautiful trees. There was the American Elm in the middle of the front yard. It had a hole in it that bled and was terrifying to me as a child. Roaches lived there. And who knew what else. We had to stand on tiptoe to reach the hole, so it naturally became the ultimate dare in any childhood test of courage. Then there was the mulberry that grew between our house and the neighbors to the north. Easy to climb – that one was our escape from summer heat. The bark was always cool – even on the hottest Texas day. I always remember the waxy green leaves being bigger than they were. Must just be because I was smaller. On the opposite side, between our house and the southern neighbors was one of my favorite trees – a Japanese Black Pine that Otosan had been grooming since before I was born. The needles were so thick that they were a solid surface. Otosan spent days pruning it every year, thinning the needles by hand until his fingers were black as tar. One year we found a nest of morning doves nestled back near the trunk. We watched them grow and fly away. Two sprawling Yaupon Hollys shaded the front porch. Every winter the branches almost broke under the weight of all the bright red berries. We waited patiently every year for the arrival of the Wax Wings that came and stripped the trees bare in just a few days. There was a fence just below the Yaupons, for privacy. Every Halloween picture growing up has Imōto and me sitting on that fence with our pumpkins. And in front of my bedroom window, a Texas Pistachio with small, fern-like leaves where we buried our pet hamster when I was in 5th grade.
Out back there were the trees with nice straight, thin branches perfect for making bows and arrows out of. Easy to climb, too. The great big Pecan tree left over from when the area was a Pecan orchard. Our first dog used to chase squirrels around it, and Anata and I hung purple lanterns in it for our wedding reception. There was the clump of Sweet Gums that we built the most well-enforced treehouse in. We were never really good at carpentry – I think there ended up being more nails than wood. There was the Weeping River Birch, and the Japanese Red Maple tucked away in the corner by the hose. Otosan created a tiny moss and rock garden under it, his personal Japanese garden.
Inside, we had two potted trees – one in the front window and one in Otosan’s office at the back of the house. They would switch places from time to time. One was a Fiddle-leaf Ficus. I don’t remember the species of the other one, only that it had a beige bark, sprawling, spidery roots, and small, diamond-shaped leaves that were the brightest spring green. Imōto and I liked to eat the dirt out of their pots, much to Otosan’s dismay. We also used the trees as jungles for our toys and a place for our favorite rocks collected on our adventures.
And then there were the bonsai. In Japan, Otosan had picked up the tedious and beautiful art of bonsai. The Black Pine by the driveway was bonsai on a large scale, but he also had also used native plants to create smaller bonsai. At worksites, he would collect moss and tiny trees. He would sit on the porch for hours sculpting and pruning. We had a shelf of blue, brown, footed, and glazed pots in the garage. I don’t think I saw a terracotta pot till I was well into elementary school.
But now, despite Otosan’s best efforts, almost all of those trees are gone. The Mulberry was the first to go. I was too young to understand why. We played Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest in the branches before they were hauled off. Then the Elm and the skinny trees out back. The Sweet Gums were in the way of the power lines. Inside, the tree with the diamond leaves went first, then the Ficus after. The River Birch came down while I was in college. Finally, and most tragically, the Black Pine struggled for a few years of drought and record heat before Otosan finally had to admit defeat.
I remember crying at the picture Okasan sent me of the now empty spot. Not just because that tree had been such an important part of my life till that point, but because it made my father human. He couldn’t save it. Until then, he had always had a miracle green thumb. I couldn’t keep a cactus alive, but he was a gardening god. Until that day.
The only trees left from my childhood are the Japanese Red Maple, the Yaupon Holly out front, the Pistachio in front of my bedroom window that has tripled in size, and the faithful Pecan. A few of the bonsai are still around, but many have been replaced with new specimens over the years.
Driving up to my childhood home, I am struck by vastly different trees that greet me. First, it was just our yard, but now trees all along the block – touchstones of my childhood – are gone forever. New trees have taken their place and flourished, but the trees I played under, climbed, and loved are gone.
I guess I always thought of trees as immortal. I toured the bonsai nurseries in Omiya with Okasan on one of her last trips to Japan. Though they were still houseplant size, many of the trees were hundreds of years old. The National Arboretum has a
390-year-old pine that survived Hiroshima.
In Japan, ancient trees are everywhere! Every shrine, even the tiny one near my house in Osaka, had a tree over 400 years old. That is older than the United States! The larger shrines had even older trees. And deep in the forest, I am sure there are trees that have seen the world change over a thousand years.
While civilization grew up around them, these trees remained. Their roots dug deeper and deeper into the soil. Their branches reached high and higher into the sky. There is a reason that many pagan beliefs use trees as a symbol of the divine. It represents our connection to the past and the future, creates a bridge between the gods and us, or remains steadfast while families grow and change around it.
So for me, the death of a tree is something shocking. Humans and animals are fragile. Our lifespans are sadly short. But trees are supposed to be immortal.
Every year I offer to buy Otosan a new tree – whatever kind he wants – but he always turns me down. Last time I was home, he mentioned that he might have to cut down the Yaupon Hollys out front and that the Red Maple was struggling. It hurt when he said that. I understand now that trees die, and sometimes you can’t save them, that Otosan has done all he could to keep them alive this long in an alien environment, but the child in me is still deeply hurt by the thought of losing them. They are a part of me. They watched me grow. They inspired me and challenged me. Their roots are my roots. I accept that the animals and people I love will pass out of my life, but the trees are supposed to be immortal.
