The Japanese maple in my backyard sometimes tells me all I need to know. It is not a delicate tree, as many of its variety seem to be, but an old, strong one, immensely climbable, and a fine reporter of weather conditions. Right now it is frosted with snow—quite elegantly, I might add. In fact, this tree is always a beauty with its nevergreen leaves, covered with children, or with no leaves at all. And then, there is autumn. It is my favorite time of year, anyway, so perhaps I am biased, but I doubt anyone would fail to find pure magic as the low light of fall shines through the crimson leaves floating slowly to the ground.

It was at this time this year that I found myself gazing with regret from my kitchen window to that tree in its splendor. Its mere magnificence made a palpable space in my heart from the way I wished things were and what had really happened.

The silence was everywhere, as my older son, the one who perhaps loves that tree more than all of us, was not raking up the leaf piles so that he could climb the tree and jump into them. I thought I could see him there, and then, I realized that it was not possible. No. In fact, even days earlier, he himself was not jumping in leaves, or even leaving his room. When he went to counseling and said that he could no longer find a good reason to live, I knew he needed more help.

The psych ward is a strange place, somewhere between hospital and prison, with an arts and crafts room and a few floor lamps thrown in to make it seem less institutional. Despite a pretty good knowledge of what mental illness does to a person, to a family, I had not yet experienced this area of the hospital. So, even though it made sense that the staff would take extra care, I still felt a clinging sadness as they came to unlock the door that separated me from my child after he came in on the ambulance. That Friday night—no, Saturday morning at that point—the nurse searched the bag with his favorite things, removing items that may be dangerous. The drawstrings came out of sweatpants. The Bionicle with the pointed helmet? Nope. It went home with me. When I later met my son’s laughing classmate, who had slashed her wrists, I understood why aluminum cans were banned. It struck me how invisible her pain was to me, how invisible my son’s had been to so many, as well.

The next Monday, I took a picture of the tree, dusted with the first snow, ablaze with leaves that had not even completely changed colors a few days earlier. My son was astounded, and no, he hadn’t been outside. It had been three days, and it dawned on me that he didn’t even have a coat with him. He said he didn’t need one.

A few days later, the weather turned warmer. The hospital said he could come home, if only for a few hours. I went to the school to pick up homework, and the guidance counselor left something in my car: a turkey and all the trimmings, a pie. I didn’t have to shop! I didn’t realize until the day I opened the box that the meal had been completely prepared. I didn’t have to cook! A pleasure most times, but not this year. We had to enjoy the meal without him, looking for thanks, and yes, thankful that he was in good enough spirits to kick a ball around with his sisters in the courtyard before we came home. Thankful, too, for the generosity and compassion of one person.

The tree lost most of its leaves in the wind of the next days, days that blurred in rain and fog, wind, sunshine. I remember nothing but the drive down Route 135, driving there, not home, wondering how he would be, and then returning to meet his sisters, finding a way to make things all right for them. We painted our nails. We drew. We accepted unexpected kindnesses, and tried to be understanding through our disappointment in those who had not known what to say. We raked, falling, laughing with tears streaming down our faces, into huge piles of the delicate leaves under the tree, awaiting his return.

I turned the page on the calendar, and the hospital said he was ready to leave. He came home just after school ended, went upstairs to his room, like any other day. He smiled. It was a gift.

I cannot say that things have been smooth, that life has gone on as normal, or that I even can tell you what normal is. In fact, things have been hard, disagreements bitter, illness still lurking, letdowns remaining, snow falling. But this is life, sometimes so easy to give into the difficulty of the whole affair, to fill it with noisy things and superficial importance, or to abandon the mess altogether. And yet, I look at my window, and the tree is still there, still strong, still beautiful, simply there. There, also, is gentle kindness, words forgotten and words not yet spoken. And somewhere, there is joy.

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