The trees had been described as “deer resistant”, language that is ambiguous because it depends on how hungry the deer are. The family of three that felt comfortable in my backyard were really hungry.
I had bought the pomegranate trees as memorials for my daughter, dead at 27 of a fentanyl overdose. She had loved to eat the bitter seeds even as a little kid, chastising me if I left any stray seeds tucked into the leathery rind.
It took me a few weeks to notice the nibbling, the slow reduction in leaves. Without leaves, a plant cannot feed itself. I called a local fencing company to build a fenced garden area and put a net over the potted trees while I waited for their safe place.
I had not been able to save my daughter, to rescue her from her drug of choice. During a few months of sobriety when she was a teen, we had done sand tray art therapy. She had chosen a glamorous witch facing the figuring of a small girl, then placed a large bear on its hind legs in between the two.
“Mom, you’re the bear.” I had wanted to be the bear. But the demon drug bested both of us and so the pomegranate trees became a surrogate, a chance at a do-over.
The fenced area was built, and I planted the two leafless trees last winter, hoping that the green I saw when I scraped a bit of bark off indicated life. It is now spring and the two are covered with abundant foliage.
I can’t meet them for coffee or go for a walk with them, but they bear witness to overcoming adversity, to bearing witness itself. They are my bear. It may take a few years before they bear fruit but when they do, I will be sure to pick out every seed carefully.
Christine O