In the Arbor

Ann Wallace:

In April 2019, my friend’s teenage son — and my daughters’ childhood friend — died unexpectedly. Hunter was a spirited athletic boy who seemed most free outdoors, running, climbing, laughing, always laughing. I have one particular memory of Hunter perched in a tree — I think it was a cherry and he must have been six or seven years old — at a picnic in Liberty State Park. He sat in the nook of a branch, like a woodland sprite, inviting other children to join him. Soon the small copse of trees was filled with children. Hunter’s family and friends were shattered by his death, yet we pulled together closer in our mourning, and his mother formed a peer mentoring organization HuntersWorld in his name so that teens might build the tools to support each other and feel less alone.

Two years after his passing, and a year into the pandemic, I had a dream of Hunter leaping from tree to tree, beckoning us to follow; these trees were taller, darker than the ones in the park from so long ago, and Hunter — true to life — wouldn’t stay still long enough for us to keep up. Though the dream was haunting, it also brought me peace. Hunter was filled with joy and with life. I wrote this poem the next day in one sitting, needing to capture the image of this beautiful yet elusive boy and the community that has held together in his absence.