Cemetery Tree

He wanted to treat people well, but he didn’t always know how.

Feb 04, 2026

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The day before the burial, Ellen picks me up and we drive to the plant store to buy a tree. I didn’t know you could buy a fully-grown tree. It almost strikes me as a theoretical concept, like how you can “buy” stars to give as gifts. Can you own a star? Can you own a tree?

At the store, the trees are arranged in rows, their roots bundled above the ground in big burlap sacks. We find a worker and Ellen tells him we’re looking for something to plant on my father’s grave. I look young enough for this to seem tragic.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says. I try to make a grief face but I’m really hungry, and when I get hungry I lose the ability to emote. I also get lightheaded and my vision narrows to a small circle.

“Thanks,” I say to the man. He shows us two trees that can survive in full sunlight and will look good in a cemetery and won’t encroach onto nearby graves as they grow. I picture the roots spreading out underground, wrapping around coffins, holding the dead in a series of tentacular hugs.

“Which one?” Ellen asks me, gesturing back and forth between the two trees. I don’t really care. They’re trees, they’ll change. And how much time will I be spending at the cemetery anyway?

“Either,” I say, and she chooses one. She’s paying. My dad didn’t leave any money for things like this.

There’s a paper form to fill out before we schedule the planting. The questions are intended for another sort of client. Do you live at the property full-time? the form asks. I check No. It also wants to know about electrical lines, elevation, irrigation. I’m annoyed at the questions. I’m 28 and my dad died in a hospital last week while I was out eating lunch. I’m not concerned with irrigation at present. Ellen buys the tree and it’s a thousand dollars or something and it hits me again how much she loved him.

We walk to the car empty-handed, as if nothing happened. The tree will travel straight to the grave, bypassing us, like most things on Earth.

In the parking lot, Ellen asks why my sisters aren’t coming to the burial.

“I can’t speak for them,” I say. Then I go ahead and speak for them: “They made their decisions a long time ago. They don’t want to risk going backwards.”

Ellen sits at the wheel of the parked car as I tell her about my childhood. I’m so faint with hunger that the memories feel real, like bricks stacking up in my lap. Unhappy times, but I would relive any of them if it meant getting the chance to say goodbye.

“I know he loved me,” I say as the car pulls out. “He was a good person and wanted to treat people well, but he didn’t always know how.” We drive to a cafe and Ellen buys me a banana and I eat it quickly, feeling my senses return.

Months later, the tree flowers on his grave. When I visit, I sit in its shadow and worry about overstaying my welcome. Do you live at the property full-time? Sprinklers turn on, cars and joggers pass, leaf blowers rip through the air. A whole lot of life. My vision narrows to a small circle. When I talk to my father, I talk to a section of grass, his last remaining property. The tree blocks the sky so I never have to ask myself where he really is.