Dead Monkey

Years ago, during one of our weekend rides around town, Terry and I came upon a Japanese man setting up a small stand along the main street, selling bonsai trees.

Terry was immediately curious, intrigued by the delicate little creations, so we stopped. He asked the man many questions, and their conversation stretched on for nearly two hours. By the time we said goodbye, the two were laughing like old friends — and I was carrying a tiny, beautiful tree in my arms.

Following the man’s instructions, I took the best care of that bonsai. It received my full attention — the right light, the perfect water, the tenderest care. But after a month, the beautiful little tree began to turn brown, its leaves stiff and dry. I spent months trying desperately to revive it, carrying it from one window to another, chasing sunlight and hope.

Terry watched me quietly for a long time. Then one day, he told me a story — about a mother monkey who carried her dead baby through the forest, unable to let it go. He said the bonsai was my “dead monkey,” and gently suggested I should release it. But I couldn’t. Even knowing it was gone, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

One afternoon, after I’d been out running errands, Terry called from the living room, “Hey, honey, come here! Your baby’s back!”

I paused, confused.
“What baby?” I called back.
He grinned and led me to the baby — my bonsai.

As it turned out, he had secretly worked on it while I was away. He had spray-painted it green and sealed it with a coat of shellac. It looked so real, I almost believed it had come back to life.

That little tree has sat on our shelf for more than two decades now.
The paint has faded, the shellac cracked.

Maybe… it’s time to let it go.