Friday, August 4, 2006
cannot tell a lie
This morning, Bear went to his Dad's house and cut down an old apple tree.
Papa, usually the epitome of stoic upbringing, had some suspicious wetness in his eyes when she finally groaned and fell - this was a tree he watched all four of his children play on and around, and where he spent time watching his wife garden and fuss and plan out where all her plants and flowers would go.
There'd been talk about getting rid of the old tree for years, but the actual act was much more memory-evoking that anyone had planned for.
After it fell, we found remnants of an ancient crumbling birdhouse and Bear showed us where he would climb up the trunk and hide from his brother and sisters - his own private space, with only the rustling leaves as company.
The core of the tree was rotten. The next big storm probably would have pushed it onto the house.
B cut so it would fall into the yard and not destroy anything, and now there is only a stump, cut at a good height so Papa can sit if he wants a seat outside.
A seat, to sit and dream of people both near and far.
I think he'll like that.