The last thing that grief takes

I joined a grief support group eight months after my wife died.

I was terrified of forgetting her.

Not all at once. Just the little things. The way she laughed with her whole body. The scar on her wrist from falling off a bicycle as a kid. The way she'd steal fries from my plate after insisting she wasn't hungry.

The facilitator welcomed me with one question.

"Have you dreamed about the tree?"

I hadn't.

The others had.

"Its branches reached my fence," one man said.

A woman smiled weakly. "Mine's taller than the church now."

Nobody explained what they meant.

A week later, I dreamed about it.

My wife stood beneath a small oak in an empty field. She looked happy. Peaceful.

When I woke, I remembered the tree perfectly.

I couldn't remember what she'd been wearing.

At the next meeting, I told them.

The facilitator didn't ask about my wife.

"How big was the tree?"

"Maybe fifteen feet."

She wrote it down.

The dreams became routine.

Every night, the tree grew.

Every morning, I forgot something.

Her birthday.

Her favorite song.

The restaurant where we had our first date.

Every Thursday, the room sounded the same.

"My tree's wider than the road."

"I forgot his voice."

"The roots reached my porch."

"I can't remember her smile."

No one cried.

They just nodded.

Like they were all watching the same clock.

One evening, an elderly woman whispered, "I forgot my husband's name."

Nobody spoke.

The next week, her chair was empty.

Months passed.

The tree became enormous.

It swallowed the horizon.

I stopped dreaming about my wife.

She wasn't there anymore.

Only the tree.

Tonight, I pulled every photo album out of the closet.

I needed proof that she had existed.

The wedding.

Christmas.

Our honeymoon.

There she was.

The same woman in every photograph.

Beautiful.

Laughing.

Growing older beside me.

I searched my memories for her name.

Nothing.

I searched for her voice.

Nothing.

I stared at our wedding picture until my eyes watered.

My arm was wrapped around her waist.

She was smiling at me like I'd just told her something funny.

I have no idea who she is.

Then I noticed something I'd never seen before.

Behind us, at the edge of the photograph, stood something I recognized immediately.

A young oak tree.