We’re taking down a tree today. Not because we have to due to it’s health but because it stands in the way of our new addition.
Experts said the tree would most likely die in a few years and that it wasn’t an “important tree” but anyone could see it was tall and verdantly majestic despite it’s species and supposed health issues. I swallowed the “unimportant tree” line to myself like a bitter pill as I left this morning prepared- actually, almost hoping- to have it all gone upon my return, to erase in a few minutes what must have taken decades to create. The faster my indulgence was taken care of, the less I’d pay the price for it. I didn’t even want a stump as a knotty reminder of my selfishness.
But a few hours later the tree was still all there. The tree guy needed more equipment and was returning shortly. “Even the experts have underestimated me!” the tree seemed to admonish, limbs crossed at her trunk. I felt despair settling in with raw vegence.
Who were we to take this tree down: one who had so determidley survived harsh winter storms and patiently endured neglectful owners for all these years until we arrived. She must have breathed a sigh of relief when she saw us come along and begin to primp and restore the property. I felt like we had played a harsh trick with the reveal now her demise. I ran into my car and like a true coward, drove away trying not to imagine how the tree must think this a day like any other and yet this was its last. “It’s like the Giving Tree!” I sobbed aloud to myself, thinking of the Shel Silverstein classic about the tree who gave up its glory in order to delight it’s owner until only a stump remained. I pulled over and called my husband who was still at home. No answer. I pictured dozens of buzz saws hungrily tearing thru tree limbs blocking out the sounds of my ring. After about 20 tries he finally picked up.
“Is it still there?” I cried. “Take a picture of whatever is left. We need to document its existance.”
There must have been something in my tone because he immediately emailed me three perspectives of the tree. I stared at the images on my phone feeling more like a hypocrite than a tree hugger.
I later warned the kids as we pulled up the driveway from camp that the tree most likely would now be gone.
The tree was still there but all it’s branches had been removed, surely in preparation for tomorrow’s felling.
I ran out of the car and put my arms around the great trunk- one whose wide width didn’t allow me to- another reminder of its wise age.
“Could we all just say something to the tree?” I asked. My kids rolled their eyes but they didn’t move away either so I started: “I will never take another tree for granted,” I told it. “I am so sorry. We just don’t have a garage or enough space…” I stopped myself, feeling pathetic. My youngest then gently put his hand on it’s trunk. A vision of he and his friends zooming past the tree during many snowy sledding days flashed in my head. Spring it had been home base to dozen of baseball and summer, tag games. And now…the sun was setting on another day.
“Thanks,” he told it, “for all the awesome Home Frees.”