The Wishing Tree

I know mommy doesn’t hate me.

I know it’s my fault for making her mad. Mommy is mad a lot.

I had to leave until she’s not so mad anymore.

I brush my hand through my hair and feel the lump on my head. It hurts. I look at my fingers; they are red.

I wipe my hands on my pants, then wrap my arms around the big old oak tree as tight as I can. Its broad canopy of branches and stickery leaves spread over me, covering me like a blanket. Comforting me. Protecting me. So big and strong.

Just like my Daddy. I wish he hadn’t left us. I really miss him.

The tree rustles in the wind, full of life, breathing, whispering. I hold on tight.

Why did Daddy leave us? I didn’t even see him go. Mommy said he didn’t want me anymore, said he didn’t love me anymore. Was that true? 

I think back to all the times me and Daddy came down here to the tree by the river. We came down here a lot because Mommy was mad a lot.

We skipped stones in the water and watched the fish swim, lazy and slow. We saw the crawdads scurry backwards to hide in their holes, then peek out at us like shy children. We admired the ants, bees, and squirrels, busy at work. We sat under the shade of the tree to talk about guy things. And sometimes, we took a nap.

Daddy told me that this is the biggest and oldest tree for miles and miles around. Planted by the Great Spirit to be guardian of the river. On the day the tree was born, the Great Spirit gave it a trunk as hard as iron, and roots deep and long to drink from the river it protected.

“It’s a Valley Oak,” Daddy said. “The largest, most majestic of all the California oak trees. And this tree is the king of them all. A wise tree, like King Solomon of old.”

Why is Mommy mad at me all the time? Sometimes she gets so mad that she hits me. When she calms down, she says she’s sorry, and won’t ever do it again. She’ll be nice for a while, until she does it again. 

I let go of the tree and rub my head. It really hurts. The lump is bigger, and there is more red on my fingers.

Daddy said the natives built their village beneath its branches many years ago. They lived there until the miners—called 49ers—made them leave when they found gold in the river.

Were the natives sad when they left? Like when Daddy left. Was he sad too?

Daddy called it the “Wishing Tree.” He said if I made a wish, and I believed it hard enough, that my wish would come true.

The tree, so regal, noble, and wise—branches swaying in the breeze—whispers in my ear, telling me everything will be okay. I feel peace and calm. I feel safe. Like with Daddy. I always felt safe with Daddy.

I hope he comes home soon. 

I fold my hands. “Dear Tree, I want to make a wish. Please make Mommy happy with me again. Help her feel better. She is so tired. Amen.”

Wait, I forgot something. “Dear Tree, please bring Daddy back home too. I miss him so much. Amen.”

I unfold my hands and remember. Right before I came here to the Wishing Tree.

The look on her face. Her eyes wide, filled with tears. Staring at me.

There was a knife in my hand, the blade covered in red. I don’t know what happened. Why was I holding a knife?

Mommy clutched her tummy like she had a stomach ache. Her hands covered a red stain on her dress, and red dripped from her fingers. She groaned, curled up on the couch and went to sleep.

I made a wish. No, I made two wishes. Daddy said my wish would come true if I really believed it. And I do believe it. For both of them.

I run my hand through my hair again. The lump still hurts, but no worse. There’s not much red on my fingers this time. 

I need to go home and wake up Mommy. I hope she feels better and won’t be so mad at me. I hope she is happy to see me after her nap.

“Thank you Wishing Tree. I have to go now.” I turn around and walk back up the hill towards home.

Mommy loves me. Deep down in her heart, I know she does. Even when she is mad. And Mommy is mad a lot.

I want to hug her, and tell her I love her too.