My mother had a quick wit and an even quicker temper. She fiercely protected her family, and her love for children and animals transcended all else. She adopted a mongrel puppy the year I was born; an unwanted runt of the litter that she bottle-fed alongside her human baby. Tippy was my first dog and constant companion. My mother taught her to meet me at the bus stop and walk me home, deliver notes and packages to our rural neighbors, and patrol the boundaries of our property with militant accuracy.

Mama was born to Sicilian immigrants, the youngest of thirteen children. She insisted on good manners, proper diction, and loathed the word ain’t. She was beautiful, elegant, well spoken, and smelled of lavender. Conversely, her language could be salty, and she was unafraid of hard work. Her shotgun was always within reach, and she could clear brush with a chainsaw like nobody’s business. But most importantly, everyone loved her, and her smile could light up a room.

My mother was a wonderful cook and had an amazing green thumb. Relatives and friends never went home empty-handed—be it a beautiful bouquet of flowers, a plethora of garden vegetables, or scrumptious baked goods. Although we didn’t have much, everyone was always welcome in our home and at our table.

During the spring of my eleventh year, my mother was in and out of the hospital. When school ended and summer arrived, she finally came home. We were overjoyed. Even though she was weak and barely recognizable, she insisted on taking a family camping trip.

As we lumbered through hairpin curves and ascended high into the mountains, my mother was tucked neatly into a small bed in our small trailer, towed behind the car like a load of refuse. Tippy rode with her, faithfully curled up at her feet. I kept looking back, making sure they were still there—worried that the trailer hitch would become disengaged, sending our matriarch and my beloved dog over the cliff to the jagged rocks below. At the time, I was unaware of outcomes far worse than the uncomplicated expediency of plunging over a cliff.

For hours, we bumped along dirt roads through thick forests, finally arriving at a perfectly secluded campsite. As we waited our turn to see Mama, I took my younger siblings out to explore.

The spongy moss of the forest floor gave way to a springy pace as the three of us hiked through the vast wilderness. My mother taught us to walk carefully and be respectful of the smallest beings. Bending down, we closely examined crowded ferns as they unfurled thousands of fuzz-laden fronds. We traversed through mossy trails littered with hollow logs the size of cars, occasionally spotting a nurse log, providing nourishment to surrounding trees.

My mother had a connection to nature like no other woman I’ve known; for her, being in the woods was as essential and life-sustaining as the air we breathe. I didn’t know this would be our last trip together, nor would I immediately realize the significance. In her usual selfless way, she was creating a positive memory to help us cope with the inevitable. Although she continued to reassure me that everything would be fine, she passed away the following month.

The loss of my mother, and then my dog, six-months later, was raw and unforgiving. After several decades, grief is infrequent, but it can blow in like an unwelcome visitor; bringing unvarying cries of sorrow over what was, and profound wails of disappointment over what could have been. Then, as abruptly as it arrives, the sorrow subsides.

We lived in a house with a lone cherry tree in the yard. For years, I observed the tree’s regeneration throughout the seasons. She was rich with pink blossoms in the spring; thick with pollinators busily contributing to the cycle of life. During the summer months, her leaves gave us shade, and her branches provided sanctuary to countless birds who built their nests and raised their young.

As fall approached and the weather began to turn, the tree stood purposefully defying nature, mocking Old Man Winter; daring him to change something with such indomitable purpose.

Finally, the ground beneath her hardened with frost. The brutal winds worked against her day after day, until she’d lost the last of her leaves. And when she thought she had nothing left to give, her remaining berries offered sustenance to birds and wildlife struggling to survive winter’s iniquitous wrath.

I feel that women are very much like the tree. Majestic, thriving, motherly, and giving. We can provide shelter, warmth, and love. Yet we can also be lonely, isolated, fruitless, and bare. Parts can be savagely cut from us; branches of what shapes us can be taken away. Yet in spite of all this, when it seems as though we’ve been stripped of everything and have nothing more to give, we pull into ourselves and emerge intact. Like the tree, we have roots that run deep and seeds that are spread, keeping us alive long after we’re gone.

The untimely loss of someone so significant can send small worlds tumbling off balance and small hands reaching into the night. Sometimes, when I’m alone and sense only the subdued sound of my own breathing, I hear my mother’s voice. Not her voice as it once was; just a melodious chime in my head, and I know that it’s her.

Even though my mother has been gone more years than she was on this earth, I feel her presence. I see her in my dreams, and feel her energy through the trees. I see her in my siblings and in myself. I see her in my son’s quick wit, sense of humor, and love of nature. I see her in my daughter’s smile and determined grit. I see her in my granddaughter’s pioneering spirit, and her unfiltered ability to tell you exactly what she thinks.

Although I will always miss my mother, I take comfort in knowing that a part of her continues to live on in all of us.