We cry in winter, and laugh in summer, and scream in grief as the shivering tree sheds its last leaves and withers away. You put your hands around mine in spring, as we plant that delicate seed, the new life that only we can make, and we smile a knowing smile. Cautiously patting down the soil over the top, you say, "This time it'll happen. This one will take root, and flourish. And in the autumn of our lives, we can look on proud at the magnificent tree, once nothing more than a seed, that we planted, and say, 'We've created something. We've made our mark on this world, left something that will last longer than our fleeting lives.'"
And I nod, too overwhelmed to speak, not even daring to think it, but hoping, praying, begging that this one will last through the winter, will grow a trunk so wide that the two of us together can't fit our arms around it.
So we water it, and sing to it, and love and cherish it. And when it bursts, rushing and gushing through that bit of dirt, and raises its head towards the sky, towards you and me, I cry in happiness.
We water it more, and put new soil around the base every day, and shower it with affection.
And you were right. In the autumn of my life, I have no fears about going. Our tree, our memory, will live on.