The fig has died, I am afraid. I don’t usually get too sentimental or even upset by the death of a plant, even an old large one, because the space it opens up is a space for something new. But this fig tree is Noah’s special place to go when he is sad, or happy, or just needing time alone, his “happy place,” as he calls it. The winter was too much for it.
It may spring from its roots, I suppose, but it will be years before new shoots are sturdy enough to climb on, and by then Noah will be beyond tree climbing. How can that happen, that a boy’s tree climbing years are so fleeting? You cannot grow a tree for a child to climb, you must have one ready for him, or maybe plant one for your grandchild.
I remember the last figs we ate off that tree. Betsy came over with her family, and we picked the figs for her to take home. And now they both are gone, the friend and the fig, done in by a winter that was far too cold.