Kate Pyontek
Fallen leaves crunched underfoot as I walked a path between headstones, down past the angel with her hand raised in benediction. It was early December, and nearly all the deciduous trees in the cemetery had released their leaves. Only the oaks still wore their withered dead, their foliage rattling like ghost-chimes.
Juvenile trees of many species sometimes hold onto their leaves overwinter, like children refusing to part with a broken toy. But oaks don’t outgrow this attachment. They are one of few tree species that continue this behavior of holding onto dead leaves, called marcescence, into maturity. While other deciduous trees form a separation layer between their leaves in the fall, this separation never full forms for oaks. Botanically speaking, why they do this is a mystery. Leaves become inefficient as the days diminish, and retaining them overwinter increases the risk of split limbs or uprootings in winter storms. It would be safer for the oaks to detach. And yet, they don’t.
I lived near the cemetery that fall and walked the grounds daily. I was not in mourning, exactly, but bereft from a pattern of difficult years. I was still holding onto things that had lost their utility: electronics lacking charging cables, childhood fears, and people, or ideas of people, that no longer existed. I couldn’t let go of these things yet, either because I refused to or because I did not know how. I know this behavior hurt me, a side effect of returning, over and over, to the same place. But after the difficulty of those years, this holding on also helped me survive. What I mean is, despite the averse effects of holding on, it was also a necessary act of self-preservation. I don’t blame myself for it anymore; I would do it again.
Retaining leaves overwinter does offer the oaks some advantages. White-tailed deer who look to gnaw on tender twigs in the scarcity of winter are deterred by the oaks’ noisy and bitter leaves, leaving the oaks undamaged. The leaves’ shelter also entices birds and squirrels who might make a home in the tree’s branches. These creatures then enrich the tree’s soil with their droppings throughout the hard winter season.
Eventually, the oaks do learn to let go. In spring, the arrival of new leaf buds forces the trees to release their old dead. This second leaf fall, a delayed fall, lays down a blanket of foliage at the tree’s base, trapping moisture as the tree enters a new growth period. As the leaves decay, they add nutrients to the soil right as the growing tree needs it most.
Maybe the oaks consider the benefits of holding on worth the risks. Or, maybe not. Living things are messy, and our decisions don’t always follow logical paths. Sometimes, we just don’t want to let go. More than simply hoarding, this seems like learned behavior from having lived through scarcity: to retain whatever we can of what was once good, in case it might be needed again. Part sentimentality, part resourcefulness. Maybe it’s not always stubbornness that keeps us clinging to something. Maybe it is toughness, resilience, persistence. Maybe the oaks get something from this behavior that we don’t understand. Who is to say for another when it’s time to let go.
#
Kate Pyontek lives and works in Cambridge, MA. Their essays, poems, and short stories have been published in Poetry, Southeast Review, Ecotone, Four Way Review, New Ohio Review, Hunger Mountain, Another Chicago Magazine, and elsewhere. Kate can be found online at katepyontek.com.