by Mireya S. Vela
In Southern California, in the scorching sun of my childhood, I look for shade but you don’t have any.
You are a strange mother. After buying a house, you cut down all the trees and begin to cement the front and back yards. The twisted walnut tree I love to climb is decimated. Then the plum tree and the loquat. The plum tree is young, but the walnut tree has spent decades setting roots. You don’t care. You leave the ground barren.
In the forests of Canada, ecologist Suzanne Simard looks for the mother tree. I think about the beautiful childhood Simard must have had to imagine—to hope—that trees might love each other.
Simard craves to understand the intimate connection between families of trees. She knows they share their vulnerabilities, tell each other their secrets—their needs.
You only love things you can control.
I don’t mind it so much when you cut down the loquat tree. The gang members in the neighborhood climb over the fence to steal the orange fruit. It scares me to know they creep while we think we are safe.
I’m allergic to the loquat pollen. When I hide underneath the tree, it covers my skin with a layer of powder that doesn’t wash off. Just like your unkindness.
Simard writes in her book that “plants are attuned to one another’s strengths and weaknesses, eloquently giving and taking to attain exquisite balance.”
When I’m in my thirties, I start to plant things. It’s a way to build hope through the haze of my depression. Perhaps it’s also a promise not to be like you. When I’m pregnant with my daughter, I plant fragrant pink roses—in case she’s like me and likes to hide in gardens.
I plant in service of the bees. When the insects arrive, I create a space for birds. I hang houses for them. I make sure they have places to hide. I leave out seed. I make friends with the scrub jays. When the snakes visit, I leave a shallow bowl of water to quench their thirst beneath the California sun.
We all need shade, mother. We all need love. We all need kindness.
In my forties, I stop needing you to love me. I decide to love myself instead. I use my love for my daughter as reference. I begin to love myself the way I love her. My husband builds an arbor to support my climbing roses. Their shade is pink and pungent. No drink of water feels as good at it does in a garden.
When I’m done enjoying the birds, I walk back. I walk the path through the cistus and ceanothus, my arms outstretched. The tips of my fingers caress the leaves and branches, careful not to bother the bees. As I make my way back inside, I mumble words of love to the trees. I hope they know I’m one of them—that in the emptiness of my childhood, all I wanted was the green of their love, the blush of their shade, and the give and take of an ecology that knows how to support love.
Mireya S. Vela is a Mexican-American creative non-fiction writer, storyteller, and artist in Los Angeles. In her work, Ms. Vela addresses the needs of immigrant Mexican families and the disparities they face every day. She tackles issues of inequity and how ingrained societal systems support the injustice that contributes to continuing poverty and abuse. Ms. Vela is the author of Vestiges of Courage, available through Amazon. Twitter: @mireyasvela Instagram: mireyasvela
Emerge Literary Journal 