At Least They're Committed

I’m not sure what kind it is, but when we first moved in here — when the house was a child of about 5 — it was already here, firmly rooted in the front yard, and it’s not a birch or a cottonwood and it has pretty, twisted leaves.

But one year after we were here, it was blizzarding outside in early October and the leaves hadn’t fallen yet and it was pained and bowed and the leaves, so beautiful in the summer, were about to break it, destroy it in this early winter. I ran outside and, with a broom, knocked off the building ice and snow up as far as I could reach. The leaves were catching the weight of winter and were destroying this creature; this guardian of our home. But I couldn’t reach so high, I couldn’t reach, I was jumping and my husband was laughing at me as I would knock a random branch and the ice and snow would fall down my back and I didn’t mind because it was our tree.

The next morning, the tree had broken . . . the top snapped off right beyond my reach. Where I’d reached survived, but now it was awkward and twisted and broken at 6.5 feet of its base. Golly, I got a lot of apologies. Then everyone talked about tearing it down, pulling it out, killing it, it was a mutant, a broken piece of life. But I’d fought for it and I continued to.

I’m looking at the tree now and, without leaves, it’s base is abrupt, cut off at 6.5 feet, but it’s branches reach and arch, reaching, twisting and dancing up to the heavens and it has become, perhaps, the most beautiful tree in the neighborhood.

At least it is to me.