Every fall the berries, little red dots eaten by birds and deer, appear between the spiked leaves of the now 30-foot tree my mom planted years ago. From the glossy, curling leaves, I suspect it’s an English holly, on a watch list of non-natives in the Northwest as a plant to monitor, although not subject to outright removal.
The holly tree was adopted by the Romans and druids, who celebrated it as a symbol of endurance deep in midwinter. Holly continues to be celebrated as a Christian symbol of life after death.
The tree my mom planted lives on years after she’s gone -- at Christmas, I place sprigs of holly mixed with cedar at her grave, which is located on the other side of the mountain from the holly tree. Across the cemetery lawn, a woman cleans a headstone of moss. The Douglas firs surrounding the graveyard still, and then waver in the windstorm that’s coming.
The next day, after hours of cold rain, I wake up to what I'll always think of as Mom's holly dusted with snow, its bright berries popping against a deep and everlasting green.
Beautiful words, as always. I like these quick moments captured like a photograph.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Kellie -- much appreciated.
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