Her wide arms reach and summon. I feel the lure even from a mile away. I met her, the giant Grandmother oak centered on an island in the Jackson Park lagoon. In those days, I wore rubber gloves and a mask, sanitized the handlebars. When air frightened me I met her, the giant. Immediately I loved her. Immediately I knew solace and joy under her big branches, branches like my grandma’s large, loving arms. I found a home and wondered: Can I fall in love with a tree? Some days I am not sure what love is. I assume it’s relational sacrifice, but maybe it’s simply attention. I don’t doubt that I love her. So then why have I ignored her whispered invitations between Zoom meetings and typing emails? While folding laundry or washing dishes, I often wonder how she’s doing. I wonder about the size of her leaves, her current color of green. I am preoccupied and full of excuses. I am way too slow and not so good at loving my neighbor. I am way too slow at doing what’s good for me and following my heart. Without gloves, masks and sanitizer, over a year after I met her, I find myself under her branches. Held by giant arms, I feel my heartbeat. I am discovering that I'm still alive, I still do love, and she still does reach.
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