There have been a flurry of emails between us, the arborist and the landscape designers (god, I feel like a yuppie talking like this). Three trees come down tomorrow.
P and I are both melancholy. I’ve been sitting on the bed staring out into the dark at the magnificent, overbearing, awkward but charming hulk outside the window. Dense, reaching branches are heavy with buds, ready for a spring they’ll never see.
I’ll hug the silver maple before leaving tomorrow. I’ll apologize. I might cry. I’ll try to take a picture and I’ll try to memorize it. I’ll be unsuccessful at both. I’l think about when it was planted and all the picnics that have been had in its shade. And then the saws will come in and take it down. The paths to dreams are not always easy.
I’m also anxious. Tomorrow we will come home to Armageddon. The tree removal is half-price since we’re doing the cleanup. We have no idea exactly what that means and I’m guessing it’s better that way.