By Donnalyn Rubarth, 1990

Someday I’ll be old and wrinkled on the outside but inside a child will be at play.  I’ll put on my jeans and Nike’s, take my step ladder out to my big, old tree, climb up into her open arms and build a tree house. I’ll pile giant pillows against the railings and snuggle into them.

I’ll look up into my tree’s branches to  watch the rustling shadow patterns just as I did as a baby. Thoreau, Longfellow and Elizabeth Barrett Browning will be my companions and I’ll read poetry aloud and write my own too.

Children will come by and say, “Old lady, why are you in that tree?” And I’ll invite them up for cinnamon iced tea and ginger cookies and we’ll have long, long talks.

Sometimes we’ll lay on our backs and draw pictures of the leaves and branches above. Some days we’ll lay on our stomach’s and study the bark patterns and the busy lives of the ants. Birds will sing cheerful songs and listen to our made up stories.

When summer is over and the leaves start to slip off their spindly branches, I’ll pile on the sweaters and wave to the children as they go off to school. Pen and paints in hand, I’ll write and draw stories for my friends.

When winter sets in and the wind blows cold, I’l bring all my big, old faded pillows inside and pile them into the window seat near my tree. I’ll be cozy and warm and I’ll watch my tree get all washed clean from the rain.

I’ll see water being held in the cups of her few remaining leaves. Her bark will turn dark, dark brown from her wetness and the birds will hide away in the bushes.

When this old, old lady becomes very, very old and her soul yearns to be set free to soar to new dimensions, her children will plant her ashes all around the base of the tree and the tree will be nourished.

When her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren become restless or lonely, they’ll visit the old tree and climb up into the tree house and talk to their mother tree. You see, her spirit will always be there and she’ll whisper wise words into their ears.