I keep resisting it, this tree. It is a tree with history. And history is the past and the past is a monster lurking in the shadows. That monster is big and mean and scary and I don’t want to face it.

But I know I have to.

The tree grows right at the bank of the creek that splits the forest preserve in two. In order to reach it, I have to cross the creek. Crossing today should be easy since the water in the creek is low because it hasn’t rained for a week. Sometimes the current of the creek grows to a loud whoosh, but right now it’s barely a gurgle.

Hopping from rock to rock, I cross over to the other side. I don’t even get my sneakers wet. That has to be a good sign. These days I’m always looking for signs.

The giant oak tree has thick branches that stick out in every direction. It looks like the type of tree you would find on the cover of a fantasy book from the library. It’s easy to picture an illustration of it, lots of heavy charcoal shading, two witches flanking the tree, a big fat full moon in the sky.

When we were younger, Parker and I played in the woods together all the time. We’d run in so far in that I’d wonder if we’d ever be able to find our way home. But back then, Parker always led me home.

Because he was older, he was a little better at climbing trees. I was faster, but he could get higher. One day, he struggled to climb up the giant oak tree. He only made it a few branches before slowly trekking back down.

“Don’t climb that one,” he told me. “It’s too tall.”

I ignored him. Struggling, I pulled myself up onto one of the bottom branches. From there, I was able to scramble toward the top. It was only when I got very high that I realized my mistake. Staring down at the ground, a fear spread through me.

“Help!” I screamed down to him.

And my brother came. He climbed the tree. Slowly. And slowly again, he helped me down. I squeezed his hand the whole way. When my feet touched the ground, I saw the tears in his eyes.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re okay. You’re okay, right?” He wiped his eyes to hide his tears, but I saw them. They meant something to me. Something good. Something real. I wish I had told him that he didn’t have to hide them.

“I’m not okay,” I say to the woods. To the emptiness around me. This time there are no tears. There’s only me and my memories.

My memories of my brother are like a garden full of weeds. I pull at them, somedays wanting to remove the bad ones, somedays wanting to remove the good ones because they hurt even more. I’ve pulled out this memory so many times, but it keeps growing back.