The Finding Tree

Chapter 16 - The Journal

August 18, 1919

My dear Journal

My physician is also an analyst that specializes in grief, and widowhood. He suggested that I keep a journal to write down the things I miss about my Lawrence, and the things I still want to do with my life. So the J is for Journal, but we both know differently, don't we dear girl.

There has been a lot that has happened since I last saw you beneath our tree. And in case you haven't deemed it necessary to think about things further, let me explain. As I'm sure you have seen, our dreams aren't just dreams when we fall asleep under that verdant canopy. They are stories, moments in our lives...and J. I have seen your moments, and I assume you have seen mine.

There is an unseen, unknowable magic with that tree. And with all life's most beautiful things, I've chosen not to question it, but just live it.

Like love; who can know how it actually happens? What chemicals and compounds are required to make us care for another more than ourselves? I would rather experience it than analyze it. I'll leave the questions for the doctors.

In case this never happens and we don't ever know about each other, I wanted to write part of my story here, at least the part of it my family may never tell you. And if all else fails, I hope that the doctor is right and I may release the grief in my soul over a love that ended too soon.

It's easier to write to you, than it is to bare my heart to a book, so I hope you don't mind me exposing my loss to you this way.  My only hope is that you are of an age now where you might gain some insight, but also have the inner strength to bear it.

You are so strong, and I take comfort that we are made of the same stuff. Therefore I know that I have the ability to put myself back together in a way that will make you proud, and leave you an example to follow.

Lawrence died a year ago today. He was my light, my life. the protector of my heart and father of my son. Without him I have withered this year. It's like he has betrayed me by leaving. It feels like he has abandoned me on purpose, not by an act of God, or fate, or randomness. I am adrift without him to moor my small craft against. He was always the strength in my life when I was too weak to stay upright, and without him now I don't know how I can stand. I'm lost in the storm, searching for light.

Lawrence contracted the deadly Influenza when the first wave of returning boys came back from the war. He was one of many thousands that died that month. My handsome man, with the strong hands and soft heart. His talents and art, will never be seen again. He struggled for two weeks, and after much suffering I came and kissed his brow, and whispered into his fevered cheek that it was okay to sleep.

I didn't want him to suffer anymore. It was cruel of me to ask him to fight  longer. He was unconscious at that point, but he sighed in his sleep, and his breath became less and less, until he was motionless in the bed, his hand cooling in mine, as my heart cooled within me.

Even though every fiber of my being wanted him to fight, I let him rest. I so desperately wanted him to fight for me, and his son. I hate him for dying, and I love him for trying. He left me, and I have been so sorrowfully angry at him for abandoning me. My mind chastises me for such anger. I berate myself for feeling such betrayal, like he had a choice to reject the virus running rampant through his body. I know that he didn't leave me like a scorned wife, but my heart disagrees.

We were married shortly after he proposed in 1903, Neither of us were young and I wanted to provide my husband with a child. Especially since he had lost one so long ago. In 1908 I was finally able to bring a child to term and gave my Lawrence a son to carry on his name, and my father's legacy as well.  Our Patrick was born easily. He was such a goodly child. Handsome and healthy, a joy to both of us as he has grown.

Perhaps I will tell you more about Patrick in a future entry. But for now my heart is empty and I am sated. I am so glad I thought to write this all to you. Mostly, In hope that our tree will bring us together once again. You are treasured, beautiful and loved. Brought about as the product of generations of  hope.

Never forget your origin J, and I hope to help you find the future you deserve by giving you some of your past.

All my love,
Mabel

I gently closed the worn leather cover of the journal in my hands. This book that was written just for me. All those things that happened, where I was sure I was alone. I was never alone. My great-grandmother was there...seeing and experiencing them as well.

My heart swelled with love for the woman, and I wished that one day I could tell her how much she has meant to me. The clock on my desk blinked to two a.m. and I closed my eyes to the promise of a morning tour for the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.