If a Tree Falls

 

Yesterday a giant lift truck as long as our house rolled down behind the hill into my backyard.  I watched as a tree trimmer with a buzzsaw so loud it made my head vibrate, was hoisted up high.  In about ten minutes he had hacked down one of the beauties of the surrounding woods who had grown old.  My husband was glad it wouldn't fall on our house during a storm.  I was sad.  True, there are so many trees around me as I write that I can't see a neighbor, and yet I feel a tinge of sorrow for that one tree that was cut down.  I have been thinking about ends lately and how my dog who flops down on my her belly when her legs give out doesn't have long to live.  I find myself feeding her extra cookies and taking longer walks.  When my husband had COVID in Brazil a few weeks ago I wondered what life would be like without him.  I felt more attentive and loving in every long distance call.  When I notice more annoying floaters in my right eye and my silver hair starts to peek out from under the cloak of auburn-colored hair dye, I think about how I'm nearly 70 years old.  And then I remember how lucky I am to have simply woken up from a restless sleep but woken up nonetheless.  All living things have a life and then come to their end.  I thank the tree, now just a stump in my backyard, for the firewood it will provide when the snow falls.  I thank if for the shade is used to provide.  I thank it for reminding me how I blessed I am to just be alive.  A little dramatic, but true.