I've been here my whole life, so maybe it's time... to say goodbye to the palm trees.

My memory of that warm February day comes in fits and starts.

I remember the piles of clothes, books, and miscellaneous soon-to-be garbage scattered across the hardwood floors we installed only a few years before. I remember the empty boxes, the packing tape, the chaos, and the sadness. But mostly I remember the man whose kindness has never left me. 

When the movers arrived, I retreated to the garage, unwilling to accept that my fight to stay had ended in defeat. I wanted to soak in every last second in the home and town that I loved, and I wanted to do it away from the family that was now stripping me from it. So, I sat there looking down the long driveway and picking at the last remnants of my childhood. The man was with the moving company. I was especially avoiding them; they were the ones taking it all away after all. He came up to me while I was sitting there, crouched down, and spoke kindly to me. I didn’t want to make eye contact with him, but he sat with me anyway. He was bald and seemed tall, but everyone seemed tall to me then. I can’t recall most of our conversation, but I remember him saying he was Canadian. I had a nanny who was Canadian and she taught me a joke. 

“How do you spell Canada?”

“C – eh? – N – eh? – D – eh?”

I told him the joke. 

He laughed. 

The frenzy of that day had distracted most of the adults in my life, but here was this man sitting with me. He made me feel like he was on my team and like he saw and understood my sadness. He knew that it was hard to see my life packed away, a life that I wanted to stay exactly where it was, so he asked me to draw him a picture. He said that when it was done, he would tape it in the cab of the moving truck and he promised that it would still be there when he brought our things to our new home. 

I liked that idea. 

I grabbed a piece of paper and some crayons and drew a picture of him outside of our house. Maybe my family was in it, maybe some trees, maybe the truck… I’m not sure. But I know that I spent time on it and that I was proud of it when it was done. 

I presented him with the picture as the day was winding down. He looked at it, smiled, and walked to the cab of his truck. I watched him tape it right above the driver’s side window and made him promise again that he wouldn’t take it down. He promised. 

That evening, we pulled away from the home that still feels like home, with its red accent wall, uneven kitchen island, and tree with the yellow flowers – my tree. One of us said it looks so empty. My mom said it looks so full, full of all of the memories of our life there. 

Two months passed between that moment and when we moved into our new house. I was excited to see the man again, hoping that my picture would still be taped exactly where it had been. I ran out to greet him when he arrived and asked if he still had my picture. He opened the door of the cab for me to look inside, and there it was, exactly where it had been. I think he said something about how it had made him happy seeing it there as he drove. That made me happy too. 

In a simple act of kindness, the man showed me that my world that was and my world that would be were connected. My life had changed, but not completely. Some things were still the same. 

At some point that day, the man drove away and I never saw him again, but I think of him often. I wish I could thank him. My heart was so broken that day, as broken as it had ever been, and maybe for the first time I felt like the little girl that I was – unable to control my circumstances, my fragile heart completely dependent on others. I don’t know what I would’ve done without his smile and the distraction of a picture.

In my imagination, I picture seeing him again. This time, I make eye contact through my tears of gratitude and thank him with a great, big hug. 

Titular Song: Palm Trees by gnash