Charolette Winder

NONFICTION

Wood Flowers

In loving memory of Sheila Ashworth, 1/13/1985 – 9/29/2024

The tree was dying. It was a graceful willow with long, streaming branches umbrellaed over the trunk, creating a secret world under its canopy, perfect for storytelling and hide-and-seek. The tree was beloved and glorious in the spring, with delicate pink and white flowers. It had some difficult years and close calls with disease and injury, its will to live and resilience always bringing it back, but not this time. Now the upper canopy was filled with splintering, black, and brittle branches, a clear sign that the tree was dying. There was nothing to be done.

First encounter: Strangers

I stand on the porch, doubting. Compassion and a spiritual nudging have brought me here. I knock. She opens. Although we attend the same church, we are strangers. No words form. Even if we were old friends, what can you say to a woman with four young sons and fewer months than that to live?

Finally, I manage, “I am so sorry.”

We hug. She lets me in.

As we chat, she reveals not only acceptance of fate and unwavering faith in God, but also that her family —parents and siblings — are coming into town to say goodbye.

“We haven’t been all together since my wedding, seventeen years ago,” she says.

Without noticing the thought forming, I now know what I can do for her.

“Would you like family pictures … when you’re all together?” I ask.

Her face brightens; the arrangements are made.

The dying stranger, who now feels like a dear friend, smiles genuinely as I say goodbye. I have given her something she truly wanted. As I drive away, I marvel at its simplicity. Who would have guessed that, of all the things I hoped to offer, it would be my skills as a photographer that would be balm to a dying woman?

Trees were once thought of as singular organisms, separate and detached. Now it is understood that trees are not solitary but deeply connected; linked below ground in profound ways. They create overlapping networks and trade resources, providing deep resilience to the forest community. As a result, the death of one tree does not mean that the whole forest unravels. Instead, reaching out, they sustain each other.

Second encounter: The photo shoot

At a nearby park, we meet again. My camera pulls on my neck. I offer one last prayer as the group walks towards me. I expect somberness but am immediately taken by their joy at being together.

They are a large family. Eight in total, and I soon realize she is the baby. The surprise that came late in life. The one they all doted on. The one who will be gone first.

They pose in groups and then one-on-one with her. They are still teasing brothers and rivaling sisters, but they’re grown now and softer with each other, especially today.

Suddenly, the twin brothers hoist her in the air, and they all gather round, kissing her cheeks and laughing. The reason for the photo shoot is almost forgotten until, like a slap, the eldest reminds her dying sister to do a few alone. And we all know — this will be the portrait, the one that will be used for the obituary, and the funeral.

The photo shoot is over. She is happy but tired. She thanks me with a hug and smile, and then, with assistance, walks away. The remaining siblings stand with me for a moment, as the weight of their impending grief seems to sink us into the ground.

With trees, we see only half the story. Below is the understory, and it is much more interesting than we ever imagined. Hidden from view are alliances, ancient and familial. In the damp mystery of soil, among sprouting seed and rot, in the communion of roots and fungi, we find the powerful forces of life woven into endless cycles. The sustaining roots offer a silent love, hidden and unseen, for the trees suffering the brutal forces that rage above.

Third encounter: Drop off

The few precious promised weeks have become days. She is succumbing to the ruthless, aggressive attack of her disease. I walk up her steps, with the printed photos placed in a basic album; there was no time to order a prettier one. I knock. Her husband opens. I hand him the album, turning to go to allow the family privacy and every drop of precious time they have.

“She would love to see you,” he says.

Her face is ashen and gaunt, her eyes heavy. She sits on the couch, her youngest two sons tucked up close under her arms. I am astonished at the difference between the frail woman in front of me and the one smiling in the photo album her husband now holds. We all speak quietly, but my words feel hollow and unequal to the moment. She is too weak to converse much anyway.

Once more, without my thought, heaven directs, “Would it be alright if I sing?”

Nodding, she speaks the name of a beloved hymn barely above a whisper: “How Great Thou Art”.

My voice builds as the words of praise wrap the room in a sweet embrace. Her husband allows his tears to flow freely down his cheeks. I do not know the song well enough to anticipate the final verse until it is upon me, but she does, and her face lifts slightly as I sing:

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation,
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart.

I almost choke on emotion, but continue to as her face fills with peace.

Then I shall bow, in humble adoration,
And there proclaim, my God, how great Thou art!

The room is filled with a holy reverence. The children barely rustle; they feel something they do not understand. The dying mother’s faith echoes in the room, and the angels, who added their voices to mine, are almost visible.

There was nothing to be done. The tree was dying. Still, the weeping willow had one last gift to bestow. That last spring, its skirting branches produced a double offering of blossoms and fruit — an effort to make up for what the dead branches could no longer provide. Surrendering to a slow decline, the tree gave everything to rebirth. It embodied the endless cycle of life-death-life.

Fourth encounter: The funeral

She did not want a regular service. She knew her young, restless boys would not be able to hold still; she had wrestled with them on those same church pews for years. She planned for them. For space to move around, spots to record memories, colorful flowers, and access to hundreds of photographs of them as a family — a celebration of the years they had together.

Neighbors and friends huddle in smaller circles, whispering of her valiant fight, the tragedy of her premature death. But her boys bounce around the room, chasing cousins and showing friends funny pictures. The oldest, a teenager, laughs with high school friends in the halls. Her husband greets us all with gratitude and fierce courage.

I pace quietly around the room, taking in the beauty of this family’s life — years of candid photographs of daily moments, vacations, milestones, and the final pictures I took. I feel a mixture of joy and grief swell up; the beauty of the life this mother consecrated to her boys, contrasted with the lifeless body that now lies in the corner of the room.

I turn to leave, fighting back tears, when a friend pulls me close.

“Did you notice the flowers?” she asks.

“Yes, they are lovely.”

“But did you see they are made of wood?”

“Wood? How?” We walk toward a bouquet.

“Shiela found them, ordered as many as she could, and then painted them by hand for weeks.”

I look closer and see the delicate wood flowers with slender petals, each carefully brought to life with color. I have to feel them to believe. They are stunning. I look again at the lifeless mother lying in the corner of the room with renewed awe.

“Why? Why do you think she did it?”

My friend’s eyes fill with tears as she replies: “For her boys.”

Charolette Winder, a teacher, photographer, mother, and writer, explores faith, family, and the natural world in her work. She is pursuing a Master’s in Creative Writing at Harvard Extension School. She lives in Utah’s mountains with her husband and children, where she hikes, reads, and gardens.

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