Father had decided to plant a tree in Mother’s
memory. I thought this somewhat bizarre, from
such an old soak. Nevertheless he wanted me
to accompany him to the garden centre to select
an appropriate sapling. He decided upon a delicate
silver birch. We took the beautiful young tree
home. Father asked if I would dig a deep hole
whilst he prepared the mulch. I put my back into
the work. An irritating drizzle hampered my efforts.
Eventually a respectable hole was dug. Father
positioned the birch carefully and I smacked down
the earth with the back of my spade. It was a
beautiful thing. I brushed the soil from my hands.
Father bowed his head. I longed to dash upstairs
and create a beautifully sad commemorative
poem. This thing had touched my soul.


Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist