Liza's Eulogy : The Giving Tree

It is hard to believe. 

This mourning came.

All of us together under one roof.

Liza's growing family. 

Many more are here in spirit. I can feel them. 

Grandma Diane, listening. Closer now. 

Great Grandpa Charlie on the porch. In the garden. 

Great, Great Grandma Hatta, wiping down the counters, 
making dumplings and dry humor. 

The family tree is what I want to touch. 

With blood, like a river, there are mysteries in it.

_____

Liza loved the book, The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein

Enough that she chose to carry the 
whole lesson on her back. 

It's painful. The story. It begins beautifully. 

"Once, there was a tree... and she loved a little boy." 

There is joyful, simple play. 

"And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade. 
And the boy loved the tree, very much. 
And the tree was happy."

Absence is the only thing the tree cannot bare.

"But the boy stayed away for a long time... 
and the tree was sad. 
And then one day the boy came back and the tree shook with joy and she said, 
'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and be happy.'"

As the story goes, he's too busy. 

He is trying very hard to make a life. 

"...you may cut off my branches and build a house. 
Then you will be happy."

Just go ahead and take everything. 

But when the first limb comes down it hurts. 

And it just gets worse from there.

How is it that this is a children's book? 

Why do we have to go so far away? 

We can't see where the man goes. 

We can't see what he built on the pages. 

Where is the fruit of this labor? 

Can he see it? 

Isn't it enough? 

When did he stop seeing the tree? 

So utterly depleting, the ending. 

Precious time past. 

No tree. No shade. No fruit. No color.

_____

Being sorry is hardening. 

Into regret. 

Forgiveness is called for.

It's a fable.

The tree is not gone.

Go back to the early pictures. 

That is what all the children want to do. 

The children within us.

Who among us doesn't call?

Call for forgiveness.

And season and after season after season,

forgiveness is granted.

_____

Over Liza's body. 

The illustration of a child resting under 
the generous apple tree. 

In this place you may have all the fruit you need. 

Unconditional love. Sweet and brave. 

Not mysterious at all, this lesson she carries:

That we all, already have, everything.

It's a simple human paradise. 

But isn't it just paradise? 

To love. 

To give and receive. 

To want what we have. 

To cherish.

_____

We would give anything Liza. 

Rest now for a while. 

Go out and play. 

Look up now and then. 

All around you, your big crooked family tree. 

It is abundant.

_____

Liza Whitacre

6.12.89 - 10.21.09

One Liza

Yesterday the beach was junky and rough and spitting white yellow foam. No one in that wind with me. A broken hanger covered in barnacles. A shoe covered in barnacles. A rum bottle with no message. Part of a vacuum cleaner. And dead fish in profile. Some of them large, all tangled in sea weed. Dangerous jellyfish to step on. All so ugly I knew I would have to write about it. What is the ugliest word for ugly.

Tragic. And that was the day.

The first call came. Please pray. So I'm on my knees, palms together with a her baby picture. Dear God, please have mercy. Bring her strength. Lift her up. Cover her in love now and heal her. If you can do this one thing for us I promise... Send my love to Chicago and wrap her up in it. And please God make sure the doctors and nurses know what the fuck they are doing.

But they didn't have the chance. The second calls come and take our breath away. I'll never say I felt like I was hit by a truck again. One of our girls is gone. Our Liza. The first born. The brave and righteous one. On her bicycle. In an instant.

There is that fine sliver of time before we wake when we ask ourselves am I a boy or a girl. I am Eva. How old am I. I am all grown up. Who is in bed next to me. Thank God. We have our children. What day is it. It is a school day. It's time to wake up.  And then it washes over you. We've lost Liza.  Every morning from now on.

This morning I growl and roar louder than the water. Each time I keel over I pick up another shell. The same ridiculous deflated yellow birthday balloon is still here from yesterday blowing around on a tethered string. There are black buzzards eating the big fish and I can stare straight into the sun. Hearts breaking now, over and over. Can you feel us Liza. Can you feel how much you are loved. I find an amber glass bottle covered in barnacles and I will take it home and wash it and keep it on my vanity. Each time I put a flower in it, it will be for you. I've walked way past where I've been before. There are huge cement skeletal remnants of an old dock jutting into the chop. I have too much to carry. So a put my bottle and my shells on the highest pylon by the sea wall and go on and on.

Here is another amber glass apothecary bottle. Capped and full of white powder. I have to scream to get it open. I wonder if it is full of cocaine and if I can shove it all up my nose at once. But it smells sweet. I do what people do. I walk into the water and let it all blow away sideways. Magically void of any relief. I hauled back and threw it out deep because I have a really good arm.

I can see you Liza. You are held over a porcelain bowl being baptized.  David is lifting you up to show you what's on the other side of the fence. You are watching cartoons in your pajamas. Cecilia is giving you and Lauren a bath together. You are dancing in the basement. You are in a tree. You are in the top bunk in the dark listening to the radio. You are tickling Max. You are wearing eye shadow for the first time. You are becoming a beautiful woman. Downtown is yours. You laugh all the time. You speak french. And you get tattoos without permission from anyone and I haven't seen them yet. The whole Giving Tree on your back. I wanted to come for a visit and touch it. To hear you tell me all about that. To tell me all about everything. I've missed everything. So much love left unspoken. Unshared. Lost. Please turn back now.

My pile of shells is gone. Washed away. Impossible. Where is my Liza bottle. Please give it back! Please give back my Liza bottle. The white blanket of foam finally recedes far enough and it's there and I run in and grab it up and hold it close and I can't breath. Can you feel me Liza.

Time to go now. There is a bright blue boogie board leaning against the cement. I know it wasn't there before. It's big and it's for me. So I carry it under my arm all the way back. Just one more weeping shell. One bottle. Our one Liza.