It first happened on a Friday night. I remember the fog rolling in over the tops of the trees, and a hissing through the slats in our house’s back garden fence as the night stole the sun from the sky and blanketed the earth with its cool embrace. The mist crept its cold, misty tendrils through blades of freshly cut grass as I tore my room apart. I remember that night, as clearly as I remember the way my mother looked at me when she heard about the lost necklace. The stare she gave me was so disappointed that even the floorboards seemed to creak under its weight as the full force of it was turned onto me. I searched everywhere. I never found it in my room. My mom had just given me that necklace, its golden chain shining in the rays of the sun and illuminating my friends' faces in the morning as I showed them. Mom let me take it to school, her shimmering beauty, now mine. Her golden rose of happiness, given from her mother and her mother’s mother and all their mothers before that, now passed down to me. She told me it was an heirloom, and that losing it would not be losing money but memories. I had lost a lot of memories that night.
The next morning was a Saturday, a day normally full of lazy mornings and joyful sunshine, but instead full of cold reality and the crushing disappointment of knowing you failed at even the simplest of tasks. As I drifted around the kitchen island and towards the sink, my eye was drawn to the backyard. I don’t know what possessed me to walk out into the early morning dew, into the wet grass and the slithery sound of trees. Maybe it was the simple sense that I had to do something, go somewhere, look somewhere unreasonable in the hope that miracles do happen. As I looked out, under the boughs of the great elm tree that stood like a silent sentinel against the sky, I saw the necklace. The rays of the sun had not yet reached through the leaves, but the necklace was glowing with more than just the gilded gold of its chain. I remember reaching down and plucking it from the roots, weighing the cold metal against my skin, and looking back to the garden door. Not possible. It was all I could think about, if I could really think about anything then. I had not gone into the backyard, not since Wednesday. It made no sense. Yet, it had happened. When I showed my mom, I never told her where I found it. Only that I did. I got a hug, and knew those memories would not be lost.
And then it happened again. This time, with my sweater. I didn’t just search my room, I fell upon the whole house like a tempest, overturning tables and checking behind couches, throwing caution to the wind as I threw around books and pillows in my search. But at the end of the day, I could tell I was not finding it.
Waking up, my eyes were yet again drawn to the back garden. And there, under the cold and gray morning sky and the branches of the elm tree bereft of any leaves in the winter, was my sweater.
It happened like this every time I lost something. My shoelace, my headphones, my key, my old pair of socks, or even a small box of thumbtacks. Every morning after, I would find them sitting under the great elm tree, as if they had been there the whole time. The fog would roll in every night, blanketing the land, roiling and curling like fingers of smoke and mist, obscuring my eyes and hiding the ground from the sky. I never questioned it. Why would I? It seemed as though my very problems were answered: lose something, and the elm tree would find it. I got used to seeing my lost things pop up from its roots like weeds, and I never questioned how or why. It was easy to fall into the habit of things when that's just how they worked. I got used to it — the small miracles, the quiet returns.
Losing things is easy. Finding them is harder. I lost my homework yesterday afternoon, probably left on the seat of a bus. It didn't matter. The elm tree would save me. But this morning I woke up, and didn't see the telltale sign of fluttering white pages stapled together nestled in the elm tree’s roots. All I saw was a photograph. Walking towards the tree, I was overcome with a sense of foreboding, like I was doing something someone before me had done a thousand times before. Picking up the photograph, I saw the same elm tree. Its curved branches were bowing under the weight of time, sagging downwards towards the smiling faces of a young couple clasping hands. The woman had my heirloom necklace around her neck, and the garden looked different. Flowers of every color and shape blossomed around her and the other woman in the photo, exploding with color and reaching for the sky. The woman with my necklace looked like my mom, except younger, and with different eyebrows. She looked like me. Turning the photo over, my eyes glazed over the date. January 3rd, 2073. Around forty-eight years from now. And there was writing, too. As my eyes ran over the paper, I let it fall to the earth, homework forgotten. “Mother would have loved the new garden. She loved this elm tree.” And under this, my name and a date, one year prior, scrawled in messy, beautiful handwriting. From your daughter. The elm tree had given me something I hadn't lost — but maybe, just maybe, something I never knew I would have. A daughter.
The next morning was a Saturday, a day normally full of lazy mornings and joyful sunshine, but instead full of cold reality and the crushing disappointment of knowing you failed at even the simplest of tasks. As I drifted around the kitchen island and towards the sink, my eye was drawn to the backyard. I don’t know what possessed me to walk out into the early morning dew, into the wet grass and the slithery sound of trees. Maybe it was the simple sense that I had to do something, go somewhere, look somewhere unreasonable in the hope that miracles do happen. As I looked out, under the boughs of the great elm tree that stood like a silent sentinel against the sky, I saw the necklace. The rays of the sun had not yet reached through the leaves, but the necklace was glowing with more than just the gilded gold of its chain. I remember reaching down and plucking it from the roots, weighing the cold metal against my skin, and looking back to the garden door. Not possible. It was all I could think about, if I could really think about anything then. I had not gone into the backyard, not since Wednesday. It made no sense. Yet, it had happened. When I showed my mom, I never told her where I found it. Only that I did. I got a hug, and knew those memories would not be lost.
And then it happened again. This time, with my sweater. I didn’t just search my room, I fell upon the whole house like a tempest, overturning tables and checking behind couches, throwing caution to the wind as I threw around books and pillows in my search. But at the end of the day, I could tell I was not finding it.
Waking up, my eyes were yet again drawn to the back garden. And there, under the cold and gray morning sky and the branches of the elm tree bereft of any leaves in the winter, was my sweater.
It happened like this every time I lost something. My shoelace, my headphones, my key, my old pair of socks, or even a small box of thumbtacks. Every morning after, I would find them sitting under the great elm tree, as if they had been there the whole time. The fog would roll in every night, blanketing the land, roiling and curling like fingers of smoke and mist, obscuring my eyes and hiding the ground from the sky. I never questioned it. Why would I? It seemed as though my very problems were answered: lose something, and the elm tree would find it. I got used to seeing my lost things pop up from its roots like weeds, and I never questioned how or why. It was easy to fall into the habit of things when that's just how they worked. I got used to it — the small miracles, the quiet returns.
Losing things is easy. Finding them is harder. I lost my homework yesterday afternoon, probably left on the seat of a bus. It didn't matter. The elm tree would save me. But this morning I woke up, and didn't see the telltale sign of fluttering white pages stapled together nestled in the elm tree’s roots. All I saw was a photograph. Walking towards the tree, I was overcome with a sense of foreboding, like I was doing something someone before me had done a thousand times before. Picking up the photograph, I saw the same elm tree. Its curved branches were bowing under the weight of time, sagging downwards towards the smiling faces of a young couple clasping hands. The woman had my heirloom necklace around her neck, and the garden looked different. Flowers of every color and shape blossomed around her and the other woman in the photo, exploding with color and reaching for the sky. The woman with my necklace looked like my mom, except younger, and with different eyebrows. She looked like me. Turning the photo over, my eyes glazed over the date. January 3rd, 2073. Around forty-eight years from now. And there was writing, too. As my eyes ran over the paper, I let it fall to the earth, homework forgotten. “Mother would have loved the new garden. She loved this elm tree.” And under this, my name and a date, one year prior, scrawled in messy, beautiful handwriting. From your daughter. The elm tree had given me something I hadn't lost — but maybe, just maybe, something I never knew I would have. A daughter.