The tree is coming down today. I’m glad that I didn’t find out until about late last night – I haven’t had to spend the days thinking about it. As I get older I give myself permission to feel sad about silly things. Oh, I know, it’s just a tree. I know that we have taken pictures and we can’t find the little boy who planted it, and we will take the wood and it must come out.
I will say good bye and leave for work, and when I come home it will be gone. Mr. Spit will oversee the fence removal and the tree removal and the payment and I want no part of it. The tree is dying. It looks worse now than it did in the spring when we made the decision. The tree is has gall and mites and it cannot be saved. It is not even sensible to try.
I am sad.
It was a lovely poem of a tree.
a tree sprite will be homeless tomorrow.