In 1974 I left the Bronx, and Bruno, in his garage-living room. Left the fear of his banging on the ceiling behind, and bought an apartment in Queens; my husband was already a year or more into an illness, and at 28 he knew hospital walls well. He wasn’t with me for the move. He wasn’t there to help pack, carry, support, or transit. The van came, he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was dying. What did young people in their 20’s know or understand? Beyond peace, love, and Bill Withers in 100 degree heat in Central Park. What concerns could we have—is the Paul Butterfield Blues band playing Friday night? But the tree was strong, sat lady-like in the back seat of Judy Bernstein’s car, like a princess in a limo, wearing her seatbelt. We drove over the Whitestone Bridge into terra nova, and brought the tree to the 17^th floor of the new apartment, where its view, unfettered, was of bridges, buildings, and on a good day, even Connecticut.

 My husband came home briefly from one of many stays at Mt. Sinai Hospital and sat up nights in the recliner pounding his fist against the chair frame in agony. I took him back to the hospital. Back and forth.Admitted, discharged. And so were the seasons of our lives rearranged. I took him back when it was no longer feasible for him to live home. For the last time.

He was 28 years old.

Once broad and blond and muscular, he became skeletal. No longer able to bloom. Unable to produce leaves or flowers, to receive or give joy. He tried to make love to me and couldn’t. I mounted him in fury. He had no strength to move, let alone to breathe.

The tree outlived my husband. Where he couldn’t stand, my tree was firmly planted, well rooted, lifting its branches toward the white ceiling and over toward the terrace. It seemed to drink my tears.

My tree and I remarried in 1976. It thrived through a second marriage and didn’t gripe when we left it for the summers. Everyone was its friend. Everyone admired it, marveled at its age and good health.

It was easy going; it drank and bloomed. Fruit developed and fell off. The cycles continued. It embraced me through job changes, and personal woes, it perfumed the air when I got pregnant in 1986. It loved me if I was thin or not.

It swayed with me to Joni Mitchell and Van Morrison. It enjoyed Bach and Raffi-kid songs and never complained. It was as doting as a grandparent and gave us gifts like a visiting aunt.

And all the while it grew and expanded, its stem getting woodier, it was pulled from one pot and put into another. It drank MirAcid and MiracleGro; I made blue concoctions that stained my hands, and it took in the nectar and produced bigger and bigger leaves, each one glossy, popping out little waxy blooms.

In 1991 my father had a stroke and I had to leave my tree, my husband and my 3 year old son, and care for my mother in Florida. My father was on life support and I was going to say good bye before pulling the plug. I didn’t think much about my tree while in Florida for 2 weeks. I saw much bigger orange trees, the breezes awakened me, and January fell away from me. The weather fooled me into believing it was spring and that things were fine. Except for the constant pain in my gut and the dry heaves, I made peace with my father who breathed mechanically and deeply. The nurse disconnected the respirator and I watched my father’s back turn blue.

When I arrived home, the tree no longer had leaves but was wading in a pile of drying, green, detritus that formed a soon-to-be crunchy carpet. My tree was empty, like my father. Pleasureless, and unable to give pleasure.“Didn’t anybody water the plants?” I fumed. No husband or child had known or had seen the need. I had taken the action for granted.

I couldn’t face another death, so I just carried on as always and did what I usually did and watered it. Drowned it. I would have given it mouth to mouth if I knew how. I would have thanked it for all its faithful years. It was terrible not to be able to have an exchange with a dear friend who shared so much with me. I walked away. I was patient. And waited, without focus, and resumed my life and tried to comprehend the depth of its changes.

I was now fatherless, and treeless. Every waking moment I felt the sick feeling of loss. But something miraculous began to happen: buds took shape, leaves poked through the branches and grew beautifully with luster. My tree taught me that what appears to be gone may, just in fact, need a break, a rest, to contemplate, to renew.

Over the years my tree bloomed with and without the synchronicity of the seasons. It moved with us to a larger place and sat majestically in a corner in the living room. It took in the energy of the house, and changed it to blossoms. It dropped its leaves and got them back. It perfumed the house even in the winter. It was a home for small visiting birds on occasion, when it sat on the porch and watched the street life of summer. Then back in it came to resume its indoor life.

Nature has taught me to trust its cycles; I had an unwritten contract with nature that this tree would be with me forever; the years promised me, taught me, displayed to me, its heartiness. It loved me, I played it Mozart. Its beauty brought peace and shelter. I watered it, fed it touched it, catered to its needs. Love usually came easy, the relationship permanent. Forever.

But new cats recently came to my home to replace the long gone original cats and they competed for space. They dug in its soil, soiled its dirt, sat with oranges bouncing off their heads, batted at fruit and leaves. The tree looked like it enjoyed the company, and it didn’t complain when I fashioned a black plastic bib over the dirt to keep felines away.

But it became moody and unresponsive. Its cycles were disturbed, maybe too much water held fast under the plastic, now sticky and dusty. My gardener visited and told me it was weeping. Tiny, fine cobwebs formed and trapped little red spiders. Scale appeared on the bark. I could barely wait until spring to haul it onto the porch, spray it and blast it with the hose. It was cold in May, and the tree, already weakened, was shocked from its promise of renewal. The leaves, what was left of them, withered, dropped or hung on like the yellow ghosts of old Chinese lanterns after a New Years celebration.

I don’t give up hope so easily; I watered its bones, now fully visible, yet still beautiful in form. I could see all the places I had pruned it over more than 35 years. I could see beginnings and ends and growth like you’d measure a child against a yardstick, every twist and turn and bend of the little boughs.

I could envision the perfume of the flowers and how giddy they made me. I could remember to my core the passion I felt for it. But it was leaving me and there was nothing I could do.

But wait for another miracle.

Water, fertilizer, sun, shadow, were all last ditch efforts; there was one small branch that was still faintly green near the top. It was still a living thing, trying on its own respirator, to manufacture its needs.

 

Starts here

On to part 4