by Andrew K. Langley
It started with death. My last day as a human on Earth was largely uneventful. Death, in its totality, was no surprise. My family gathered by my bedside as my belabored breathing ceased. My two daughters, their adequate husbands, even the one I always assumed was gay, were all crying their eyes out next to my lifeless body.
My first taste of life, as well as my last, was from inside a hospital. I was ready to go. A few days in a hospital will do that to anyone. Especially if the few days become a habit month after month. I was a burden.
My family didn’t have to tell me; I knew. The looks. The side-eyed whispers.
The staff greeted me like an old friend each time I was wheeled down the hall. That was all the confirmation I needed. Better call an end to the whole charade.
My husband Henry passed away a few years earlier, so I knew what to expect. The shortness of breath, skin discoloration, bruising along the IV sites, you know, the fun stuff. But oh boy, he wouldn’t have approved of my nurse. She was Black, African American, or whatever they prefer nowadays. I can’t keep up. Well, couldn’t.
My Henry wouldn’t have used any of the terms I mentioned, though. That was back when people really spoke their minds. For better or worse. Simpler times.
The sweet nurse was named LaShanda. Or was it LaBamba? No, that wasn’t it. Nice lady, either way. But my dear late Henry would have thrown a fit. If his nurse didn’t look and act like his mother, they were all trying to kill him.
Hell, I could have killed him a few times. In the end, he went naturally, after years of complaining about everything under the sun. Come to think of it, he even complained about the sun itself.
Years of boozing and being angry at the world led him to an early grave. If only he had listened to me. Why does it matter anyway?
I’m dead.
On I go! First stop, Heaven, I hope.
I didn’t wait around to watch my family’s boo-hooing for too long. Once the final curtains had drawn, I expected to see the bright light. I was ready to bow, receive my standing ovation, and walk through rows of trumpet players on my way to greet Jesus and God and reunite with my husband. Would he get past the bouncers at the pearly gate? I wasn’t too sure.
No, I was wrong about it all.
Instead, my life continued, in a sense. My soul left my old, dysfunctional body and wandered. It is more common than you might think.
Off I went to where I did not know, at least not at first. My family opened the window in my hospital room to aid my passing. A gracious gesture, but I would have gotten out regardless. I left them all sitting there to enjoy their pity party.
I, unlike my gloomy relatives, didn’t feel sadness or apprehension. I didn’t feel scared, worried, or much of anything. Peace embraced me as I traveled over and through the trees outside.
Young and free: two words I hadn’t felt for decades sprang back into existence. Once I got past the joy of zooming over the woods, I needed direction.
Where it all began, my childhood home was a few miles away. I zipped there and saw the multi-story office building that replaced my parents’ farmhouse.
Memories came to me as clearly as the blue sky above. Mornings in the kitchen with mom. Afternoons playing in the yard with the neighborhood kids. Nights listening to my father yell at the TV about his baseball team losing again, only taking a break to tuck me in at bedtime.
Reality reared its ugly head in this place. The hustle and bustle of a workday replaced all of that. Miserable nine-to-fivers shuffled in and out of the building that I used to call home, kicking up dust as they walked across the gravel. The daily toil, grinding them to dust day after day. Ashes to ashes.
This wasn’t my home anymore.
I flew down the street to my high school. Images of prom kings and queens flooded in as I gazed at the grounds below. Students and teachers had been replaced decades ago by government officials. Them and immigrants, migrants, refugees. Whatever the proper term is nowadays.
Things were different when I was growing up, better. Now they’re converting schools into migrant facilities. Hey, I get it. Too many humans on this planet of ours. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Before they converted my school, my church friends and I protested the “repurposing.” Every Sunday for three straight months. I didn’t scream as loudly or shake my fists with such vigor as them. But I was there for moral support. Little good that did.
Not that it matters; that’s someone else’s problem. I’m dead, remember?
Now what? Everything had changed so much in my time on Earth. It wasn’t for me anymore.
Why haven’t I moved on?
I took in the sights while I pondered my fate. A cardinal chirped and whistled from a nearby tree. My Henry didn’t like a lot, but he loved those birds.
I floated over and listened to the animal, wondering if it was trying to communicate with me or attract a mate. Its gaze followed me as I circled. Eventually, the bird took flight. I followed it a ways. Nothing else on the agenda for today.
We passed over the hidden valley where I had my first kiss. It was hardly remarkable. The kiss, I mean. A salad dressing factory now stands there.
We glided downtown where my Henry worked. Oh, the arguments he would get into with his constituents. His ire knew no bounds, and he could only be calmed down if I nodded along like an obedient wife. We were over the moon when he was elected to office. We were also over the hill, and even older when he stepped down.
His secretary recorded one of his racist tirades. A chair may have been thrown through a window. That would have been a regular Saturday evening at our home, but it was enough to force his resignation. I should mention that the chair hit an unlucky passerby on the street below. Allegedly.
A nice man named Jerome Walker replaced him. A Black man. It sent my Henry into his fits of rage again. That one lasted for months. I feigned empathy while smiling out of sight. Mr. Walker was a good man.
My cardinal companion and I caught our breath at the local park. During my human life, it was my safe haven. I took my first steps there. My daughter did, too. It had hardly changed.
The statue honoring the town’s founder still stood. His plaque was so faded, I doubt anyone even remembers his name anymore. Not that it matters. The park was more important to us than some man with a forgettable name.
I can’t remember his name for the life of me. Or the death of me. Maybe I had never learned it in the first place. I stayed at the park for a while, reminiscing on other moments, both big and small.
It was there, in that park, that my soul found its purpose. The cardinal perched on a young oak tree’s thin branches prepared to take flight again as I floated over.
Beyond the chirps and whistles, the breeze and rustling of leaves, I heard voices. But they weren’t spoken aloud. They just were. I couldn’t even tell you what language they were in, but I understood every word.
“Marco, isn’t it your death anniversary today?”
“Thanks for remembering. Number 182 for me! Who’s bringing the cake?”
The trees shook and swayed. Their housed birds took frightened flight.
“Marco!” the tree nearest me said, “you scared away my visitors again.”
“Sorry, Terry.”
The trees spoke. And had names. I flew between each of them, rows of tens and twenties of varying ages and health. They seemed to wave as I raced past.
“We have company,” the largest tree finally said.
The waving and rustling stopped. I was drawn to the largest tree. The wind pulled me in that direction, not that I was resisting.
“Who are you?” it asked me.
“I’m Clara. I died.”
A hush fell over the woods.
“Hello, dead Clara, and welcome. You can call me William. I have been here for 543 years, but who’s counting? I’ll get straight to the point. Would you like to join us? We did have a resident recently move on.”
I’ve only been dead for a few hours, and I’m being asked to move in? He should at least buy me a drink first.
The leaves rustled, and branches swayed in unison.
“So you know,” William communicated, “we can understand your thoughts.”
If I could have blushed, I would. I took in my surroundings. Nice part of town. Pleasant year-round climate. Hundreds of potential neighbors as far as the eye, well… soul, could see. I just so happened to be searching for my purpose in the afterlife. What’s the catch?
“What happened to the soul that left?” I asked.
“It was her time.” The trees near William lost leaves as their branches rose and fell in agreement. “Though we miss her dearly, she was ready.”
Ready? I knew what that meant. When will I be ready?
“Okay,” I said. “Where do I sign?”
“Fourth tree to my left. Welcome home, Clara.” And so, my soul took hold of an oak tree. It was young, relatively speaking. Some minor water damage and the occasional dry spot, but that’s me nitpicking. It was lovely.
I have hundreds of years to figure out what to do next. Time to meet the neighbors.
The next 20 years passed faster than I could say Quercus alba. You better believe I became well-acquainted with my neighbors. What an eclectic bunch we were. There were Marco and Mariana, Wilfredo and Winston, Tall Terry, and the Jeong twins. These oaks and I would have had nothing in common in my past life.
I wouldn’t have even said hello in passing.
After two decades, they were more family to me than my own ever had been. I grew. Not only as a tree, but in my understanding, too. It didn’t matter where Marco and Wilfredo were born. It didn’t matter that Mariana was a harlot as a human. It didn’t matter that I called her the wrong kind of Hispanic. I learned so much, and I loved their company. I loved each and every one of them.
After the pleasantries of sharing our human lives were out of the way, I settled into a groove. My neighbors and I housed all kinds of animals. Daily visitors in all shapes and sizes. We drank our fill when it rained and banded our branches together in the colder months.
Every Fall, the older Jeong twin (by three seconds) lost his leaves first. Boy, did we give him a hard time for that. He was a good sport. We all are. I’d say it was thanks to William, our mighty spokesperson… spokestree? I don’t think he enjoys the title either way.
We decide things together. He’s the face of the grove, but we all communicate seamlessly. Maybe it’s through our roots. Maybe it’s through the wind. It doesn’t matter. I learned early on that my invitation to the community was prepared the moment my soul departed the hospital.
How did they know? Great question, and I’m sorry I don’t have an answer.
It’s the same way when somebody leaves. A few have left over the years, but they’re replaced the same day. Talk about efficiency.
I still had much to learn. Like I said, 20 years breezed by. If I were human, I’d just be learning to crawl- instead of dragging my butt across the floor. I was so excited for what the future would hold with my new friends.
Unfortunately, my newfound bliss and profound spiritual journey were rudely interrupted.
A certain cardinal started visiting longer than most. It hung around for days. It relocated nests on a weekly basis. Strange behavior.
Weeks went by, and the odd cardinal got closer and closer to me. Once it reached Winston, I knew. It had asked for me by name. That morning, under a hazy sky, the cardinal landed on me. It turned its head toward my trunk and squawked.
“Clara!” It felt familiar, albeit mostly incoherent. Us oak folk could barely understand our aviary visitors.
“Yes, hello. Are you doing alright?” I asked the stranger politely enough. It was the first time someone knew my name upon arrival. I hoped it wasn’t there to serve me a court summons or carry out a hit.
“It me,” the cardinal flapped, “Henry. You my wife.”
I swayed so far, I nearly uprooted myself.
“My Henry? What are you doing here? Why? How?”
“I look you,” he squawked, “I hear you here. This my sixth cardinal. I fly far.”
That wasn’t hard to believe. His feathers were stained and ragged, especially the jagged off-white crest atop his head. His weathered, reddish beak had faded to pink, but still held a sharp, unforgiving point. Twisted talons dug into my bark as he squawked.
Nonetheless, my Henry and I spoke in broken Soulish for hours. From what I understood, he had searched for me for years, having flown across the continent upon his human death. When he got wind of my passing, he started looking.
Chivalry isn’t dead, I suppose.
Henry stayed with me for a while after that. It was nice, at first. We enjoyed his songs, and I enjoyed his company. At first.
Not long after Henry moved in, he started his old shenanigans again. Suddenly, I didn’t have as many visitors as before. No other cardinal would land within three oaks of me. That goes without saying: the bluebirds, my frequent flyers, were nowhere to be seen. Such a pity, they were saving up those miles for a new nest.
Even the butterflies stayed away. That’s when I knew something was wrong. It’s hard to offend a butterfly.
Henry had this bad habit. Whenever any living thing—soul-bound or not—came to visit, he chased it out of town. It was sharp, that beak of his. That was bad enough. But then he stopped flying away to go number two. All over my beautiful bark. Revolting.
One day, after an evening-long rain cleansed my body, Henry flew down from my branch. He reached the ground and saw his reflection in a puddle.
He flapped and darted while staring at himself like an idiot. He squawked at himself and got all worked up. His reflection must have looked at him the wrong way, because he attacked it. The puddle. He attacked a puddle.
He wanted to kill himself—the fool. My neighborly family watched the display from above. They didn’t have to say anything. I knew they hadn’t approved of him from the start. They were right.
This arrangement of ours wasn’t going to work. Our relationship only worked in human times at my expense. That’s all in the past. I can still fix the present.
I broke the news once he indulged in his favorite three-course meal: sunflower seeds, blueberries, and grasshoppers.
“Henry, you need to move on,” I said.
“You come me. We go ‘round world.”
“No, my… No, Henry. It’s time for you to go. I’m happier here without you.”
He didn’t take kindly to my request. Not surprising, considering who I was negotiating with. He poked, prodded, and slammed into my bark. It was quite a show for my neighbors. Who brought the buttered pop-acorn?
That little pest found a crack in my bark. The long winter dried out and exposed me. It would have been embarrassing, but the neighbors hadn’t noticed. Or had been too kind to poke fun at me.
Henry chipped away for hours, working through layer after layer of my trunk. He was getting closer to the core. With each stab, I felt it more. Like a diabolical dentist poking the same cavity again and again. My patience and my layers ran thin. I screamed out in pain.
“Henry! Stop that! What do you hope to accomplish?”
“You no come with me, you no stay here.”
He paused his assault for a moment, though I had no intention of responding. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.
My neighbor across the row waited for the signal. I gave my leaves a little shake, and Sun Jeong (the younger twin by three seconds) branched into action.
He swung himself at the cardinal and smacked it in the back. Henry got squished—all over my immaculate inner layer.
I never saw him again.
200 years followed. Neighbors came and went along with new animal friends and foes. Stupid humans cut down some of our most beloved. Suffocating smog from development and distant wars rolled in from time to time.
But besides that, it was a blast.
The debilitating effects of humanity were things of the past to us. The aches and pains. The ornery mornings. The memory loss. None of it existed in our world. I loved my continued life there.
I realized I had been around longer than most. None of the oaks I grew up with were there anymore, having left over the years to greener pastures. The same urge came to me on a warm summer day, after weeks of drought.
But even with a xylem full of water, I would have made the same decision. My thirst for what came next was unquenchable. It was time for the next adventure.
The neighborhood threw me a big farewell party. We laughed at stories of the past, and they all wished me a fruitful future. We all knew my tree would bear no more fruit, so to speak.
My oak wasn’t long for this world. The bark wrinkles grew more pronounced each year. My once lush crown of leaves thinned. My visitors became invaders. They sensed weakness from miles away, those parasites. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.
On September 27, the same date of my human death, I left my oak, allowing myself to fall as an acorn. It seemed like the right thing to do. Others disappear forever. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
As luck would have it, my acorn was swooped up by a hungry squirrel. He or she didn’t even let me ask its name or check its gender before I was in its cheek pouch. That little fella carried me far away.
It passed signs, roads, and homes that I used to know. Just outside the city limits, we slowed down in a quiet little meadow—one I’d never seen before. It was beautiful, tucked so close to where I grew up. The sunset cast everything in a golden hue. Monet would have been inspired. It was immaculate.
If my carrier decided to eat me, it would have been a beautiful place to depart from. Instead, I fell to the ground. Discarded like a common peanut.
The squirrel had a good excuse. It was swept away by a hawk, after all. Not ideal for me, though. The meadow was dry.
I was thirsty despite being trapped in that damp mouth pocket. After a few hours in the dark, I found myself gasping for moisture. Dying of thirst wasn’t on my bingo card. Not how I pictured my acorn life ending… but hey, life’s a bitch.
I was fading away, less cognizant of my surroundings. Even the moonlight grew darker with each passing second. I prepared myself for another soul departure.
Then I heard it, softly. The lightest of thumps resonated through the earth a few blades of grass away. Then another. The air cooled.
Rain.
Oh, sweet Mary of Moses. Wait, that’s not right. Who cares?
I was back, baby! There isn’t a better feeling than coming back to life, regardless of vessel. I could have lain in that rainstorm all night, and I did. And all day. And the next three days.
I’m not sure if the apocalypse was coming, but the rain showed no signs of stopping. The ground puddled and pooled, and off I went. Streams and rivers, never intending to introduce themselves, became one.
I floated away, gaining speed through the meadow and into the woods. Soon enough, I was joined by other innocent partners in crime, guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Other nuts, seeds, and bits of underbrush raced against me on a journey to who-knows-where.
Moments before crossing the finish line, a collection of pine straw seednapped me. My former competitors continued the race in a different direction without me. A heartbreaking turn of events for the fans.
I heard a gurgling, gushing cacophony of water around the bend. I don’t know who was navigating, but we must have taken a wrong turn. My stream led into a river.
Not ideal. I tossed through rapids, bounced off rocks, and plummeted down waterfalls. A part of me wished acorns weren’t built so tough. End it already.
After a day of abuse, the rain finally stopped. The river relaxed. I bobbed along, taking in the sights and waiting for my final destination.
The storm shifted the entire landscape. Bridges destroyed; power lines bent. Trees lining the riverbank clung to life. A school of fish administrators frantically searched for lost pupils. It was in this chaos that I celebrated my second death.
A lost, starving catfish swimming upriver had me in its sights. He wouldn’t keep me around like the squirrel. I knew.
It was the end, again.
Its whiskered mouth opened up, and in I went. And out my soul escaped. Another painless death. Knowing what to expect in death eased the process.
I’m going to take my sweet time finding a home. I’m not ready for the next step, whatever that is… yet. What’s wrong with wandering? I have a lot of options to consider.
Should I go to the sea? Be a whale, dolphin, or jellyfish? That’s an idea. Then again, my life as an oak was so peaceful. I could live that way for another few hundred years.
Now that I think about it, why stop at a few hundred? All the oaks knew that our distant relatives, the giant sequoias, lived for thousands of years. And in a national park, no less. Prime real estate.
I’d better check if there are any upcoming showings in California.
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