Sitting on my front porch steps this morning with coffee cup in hand, I feel the sun beaming on my shoulders as I look over the wooden round rising out
of the grass. For years I held a mug or a glass of
wine as I’d slip out onto these steps, as kids settled down, sneaking a
conversation with you-- moonlight and leafy shadows against my face.
When I moved into my home 18 years ago, my beautiful oak looked regal to me. But my neighbor walked over, introduced himself, and pointed at the tree “you need to take the trees down. He is not well”. But my tree seemed strong and willful. So I willfully watched my tree through the years.
When I moved into my home 18 years ago, my beautiful oak looked regal to me. But my neighbor walked over, introduced himself, and pointed at the tree “you need to take the trees down. He is not well”. But my tree seemed strong and willful. So I willfully watched my tree through the years.
With hurricane winds he stood straight and strong. With ice
storms he braced against the weather, dangling stunning, icy jewels from his branches, saying to me “these are
yours” and I was smitten.
Once a tornado crashed through our street pushing down
tree after tree. Mine, however, fought the winds--standing tall
amidst the others’ broken, downed branches. The neighbors deemed him Old
Faithful.
Every spring I would watch vivid green sprouting from my tree. I’d notice curious squirrels scrambling through halls and splendid cardinals landing upon sills. Yet every year I softly
noticed another naked branch standing still.
One year I spoke with an arborist who said the oak
was safe if pruned but that it might be smarter to take him down. But I decided to just cut the branches. I wasn’t ready for more. My tree looked a bit bare but he’d still have coffee with me in the mornings and offer tranquil shade.
Over time the branches stopped bearing green and would fall with the rain. My children could no longer play beneath the
leaves--the limbs were dangerous for those walking beneath.
So I chose to say goodbye to my friend.
This morning I stare at what is left--the stump of my oak.
Still beautiful to me with his artful rings of time, love, and I struggle to remove the last bit of him.
A child walks in front of my home and leaps onto my tree. I call out “please play on it, it will be
gone soon”. And the boy grins, gleefully hopping up and down from
the wood to the grass and I watch—happy and sad with my beautiful memories of leaves, play, even shadows. And I know it is time to let the grass
grow again where the hole will be.
I had 18 years of my tree. I loved this oak with roots
deep and strong, seeing the good, committing to what was beautiful and true until the risk outweighed the good.
Understand, this is how I loved you too.
