Elizabeth's Farewell: A Dance with October Winds

From her death-bed, Elizabeth Johnson heard the corn stalks rustling, calling her name. Her withered, bare feet hit the hardwood floor of her bedroom. She glanced at her hospice nurse, Ethel, snoring in the big overstuffed chair by her bed. She picked up the family portrait of her husband and her three kids, kissed it and laid it on the bed. She shuffled in the dark, knowing every corner of the old farmhouse her daddy had built. Her tired legs ached with each step, but the stalks kept whispering her name as they blew in the October wind, and so she plowed on.
Elizabeth eased out the front door. Her flannel gown billowed against her spindly legs. Her body once strong from farm living was ravished from the cancer and its bitter treatment. With each step, her legs trembled. Rusty orange leaves swirled around her ankles as the October

Henry walked over and placed the baby in her arms. The baby’s blue eyes glistened as he looked up and giggled. She laid her head against him and sobbed loudly. She had never heard his voice. He was born premature. At the root of the tree, she had buried the blanket they wrapped his body in after she birthed him.
Henry placed his hand under her chin and lifted her head. “One more level to go. Soon your pain will be over,” Henry said, and kissed her on the forehead.
“Henry, I’ve been so lonely,” she cried. Ten years earlier, she had scattered his ashes around the tree.
“Go,” he said and smiled.
She held tight to Thomas and bounded out the door, rushing down the next level. At the bottom, carved in the tree was a chair. It was singing her name. White light bathed its beautiful wood. She sat in it, drawing Thomas closer to her. Slowly, the branches wrapped themselves around her, embracing her in eternal love.

For weeks, they searched for her, but they never found her body. The town’s small newspaper told how her three children found solace that a once dead tree their mother loved was now bursting with