07/01/2025
When my wife was in hospice care, she kept asking me about the old oak tree in our front yard. "Promise me you'll never cut it down," she'd whisper, her voice barely audible. "That's where we carved our initials 30 years ago. That's where you proposed. Promise me it'll always be there."
I promised, not knowing that three months after we lost her, the city would condemn the tree. Root rot, they said. Safety hazard. It had to come down.
I fought them for weeks, but in the end, I had to watch as they cut down the last physical reminder of our love story. I saved every piece of that tree I could, stacking the wood in my garage like I was hoarding memories.
For two years, I couldn't bring myself to touch it. Then one day, scrolling through the Tedooo app where I'd been buying handmade memorial pieces to honor my wife, I saw a post about someone who'd turned their grandfather's barn wood into furniture. Something clicked.
I taught myself woodworking through YouTube videos and late-night practice sessions. Every cut, every curve of that tree became part of this door. The branches that once held our initials now welcome everyone who enters our home.
The glass panel holds river rocks from the stream where we had our first date. When the light hits it just right, those stones look like they're floating, suspended in time like my memories of her.
Now when people ask about the door, I tell them it's made from love. Literally. Every grain of wood holds 30 years of marriage, and every time I walk through it, I feel her presence.
She kept her promise to always be here. And I kept mine to never let that tree truly die.