Our maple is dead. Oh, it still clings to life by a thread, but it's only a matter of time. Last night Barb and I were awakened by a mysterious crash. Turned out to be the maple, which had lost one trunk this summer, losing another. It narrowly missed the house, and now I'm paranoid as all get out (well, as paranoid as I get: mildly concerned) that the remaining 1.5 trunks with their attendant limbs will fall on the house. Specifically, on our bedroom, while we are asleep, running us through in multiple places with greenwood spearpoints, leaving Elizabeth Rose an orphan, bereft.
So I guess we're sleeping in the living room tonight!
The maple was our one big tree. I fear that the backyard is going to feel like a parking lot, baking in the sun all summer. But a part of me, small though it be, is excited by the change -- any change. Something good almost always pokes its head up through the piles of bad.
1 comment:
Your essay about the Maple is so, so expressive regarding multiple emotions on the loss.
I especially liked the comment "as paranoid as I get" - not being a paranoid personality.
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