The Tree

There’s only so much that can be said about a tree. This tree stretched out of the side of a hill like a withered old man woken from a restless night of sleep. Its curled boughs yawned and moaned in complaint when the slightest breeze washed through its canopy. The gnarled roots crawled up from the ground and tripped those rascals, those midnight hide-and-seekers. Around it, the dirt was dry and dusty, and the skinny grass thirsted for a drink from the unreliable groundskeeper. But those mighty branches, sprouting from a rough and twisted trunk, extended over the entire lawn and cast the yard in a garden’s glow. This tree fooled people into believing something warm and good could happen here.  

In the winter, it was barren and resolute, like a sentry guarding a castle in quiet solitude. Snow sat heavily on tired branches. It cast a shadow the color of smoke and rainclouds. But in the spring it was young again, rejuvenated, with promising buds sprouting along every branch and twig. And in the summer, it was the most majestic tree in sight. Decked in its emerald green cloak, it was grander than Napoleon, and those flirtatious willows sighed with infatuation. Then autumn came and the leaves dropped to carpet the hill with crunches and crackles. Every year was another cycle.

This tree was a refuge for homeless turtles and wandering deer, for strutting geese and families of turkeys. It made an unkempt stretch of dying grass into a haven. Frogs sang in a symphony from the neighboring pond. The nearby willows flirtatiously swished their arms to a natural rhythm. Squirrels clambered up down over under as their nails clacked against aged bark.  Spiders and ants lived between the crevices and cracks of the trunk, keeping away from the children’s lethal magnifying glass.

People saw this tree and knew it was a happy place. There was the faithful bough that once held up a red plastic swing, a hammock, or whatever the summer’s fancy happened to be. Underneath, there was a scrape of dust where years of dragging feet had worn away the greenery. Car engines dared to break the barrier between this retreat and the suburban world surrounded it, but the faint bubble of laughter and echoes of dares still lingered between the leaves. The squelch of mud was heard from the pond as rubber boots marched through the muck. The plastic wrappers of juice pouch straws littered the base of the tree, remnants of an afternoon of reading. The roughness of the knots and dents and furrows was softened by yellow moss, and once made a decent backrest.

Only so much can be said about a tree. But this tree wasn’t just another tree. It was a king ruling his kingdom with a kind and gentle hand. It was a sentinel keeping watch over our home. It was a summertime playground that never got old. It was a mirage, a sanctuary, a comrade and a promise. But to them it was a liability. So they cut it down.