I’m an only child, and the youngest of eleven first cousins. When I was little, I idolized them, as the youngest one in a family usually does, for their certainty and perspective about the world. Their expertise of complex economic systems, for instance, in figuring out how to buy the most cherry-pineapple popsicles at Houghton Market with $5, or who had the social authority to select where to hide or when to make a move in Kick the Can—they seemed unquestionably strong and sure of the nuanced world. After leaving long weekends at my uncle’s or grandparent’s house, I would often turn to my parents and ask, “What do you think Bethany is doing right now?” And again, “What do you think Keller or Evan or Ryan are doing right now? There was a sense of urgency for me to know exactly what they were doing in the moment I left, and a sense of urgency for my parents to transform their lives into believable storylines. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve wondered why I needed this fictitious confirmation of how they might be living or what they might be doing, even with the understanding that it might not be true.
Last week, Hannah and I were looking at an article about oak trees that talked about them as symbols of wisdom and longevity in various cultures. One detail in particular stood out about a study that explored the lifespan of oaks, claiming that, “The number of living individuals per hectare has been estimated at 57,000 to 63,000, suggesting that the vast majority (68-94%) of these new individuals die within ten years due to biotic and abiotic stresses” (Jarret 2004, as cited in New Phytol, 2019). Ultimately, the conclusion can be drawn that oak seedlings do not live as long as their cultural reputation suggests.
In many ways, the pieces in this issue reflect the experience of holding onto a memory of a place or person whose image casts both light and shade, whose branches shape our earliest memories even when they are not as invincible or almighty as we think. The authors in this issue have found a way to speak to past versions of ourselves and others that transform when we realize that our perception of strength may continue to morph over time, like our memories. We hope these pieces allow space for your own stories that are ever-changing—whether they be childhood reflections, or imagined memories made real.
With warmth and awe,
Hannah Newman & Jesse Ewing-Frable
Editors-in-Chief
Sweet Tree Review