Every night, without exception, after September 17, 2013, I would awaken at some point in the night by a dream replaying the scene of what I imagined as the few seconds leading up to the instant Theo’s helmet impacted that aspen tree. But the movie always stopped just before that moment and played again, and again. On the third anniversary of Theo’s accident, Jorja and I hiked up Doctor Park trail to visit the tree he struck. I wanted to go because none of the people I interviewed for the book who were there with him were able to remember any details about that scene. I needed to know how it looked so I could show it to you in the book. Jorja was there for a different reason, to confront the tree that changed her son’s future. That evening, after we returned to our hotel, I wrote this piece.

 

Our Labyrinth 

It was our own personal labyrinth
We made it, every turn, in the center would be God
But what else we might discover there, lived only in our hope
She had something to leave, I had something to find
We brought our fear, our sorrow, our anger, our curiosity.

Through the gate, up the steep winding path
Loose dirt, boulders, roots, we strain against the steep
How did they do it? I wondered, when they came to save him
Racing against time, loaded with gear, no air.

I had imagined it a thousand times, a thousand sleepless nights
Was it really true? Could it be undone?
Could it be me instead? I would take it as my own
All that was before and all that will ever be now marked
By one tree on one day in one instant.

Our labyrinth paved itself with stones, sand, dust, and pine needles
Fools gold glittered in the morning sun,
The steep gave way to the flowing woods, a shaded path
The amber tipped leaves, a reminder our time was short.

There it was, standing near the path, as if nothing at all were amiss
The earth around was not hallowed in any way
The babbling brook nearby did not pause to say a prayer
This was not the center I expected to see, not the one I designed for me.

No trumpets, no monuments built to mark the day
The grass was the same as every other place, a new tree growing nearby
Only the scrawling on the back of the tree
“Revenge is no fun” and the initials “TK.”

The aspens whispered on the breeze
What did they say? Did they know why we were here?
Lying on the ground, this is where he thought he would die
The yellow leaves against the bright blue sky, this is what heaven will be.

He always told his students, beware, they talk to each other, so I strained too
And then I heard it as if by angels standing nearby
Why are you here? Why do you seek the living among the dead?
He is not here. He is alive.

We paused for a long time, but enough is enough
What we cannot do is not who we are
And what we can do is a miraculous gift
She wrapped it in purple, forgiving the tree
“It’s not you, it’s me,” she said. “Love wins, anyway.”

What I saw at the scene was almost identical to what I had imagined over and over, every night.  Since this visit, though, I have never been awakened by this dream again.