The Center
Rain, a glass of wine, and John Dowland. A peculiar darkness after days of riotous spring-like sun and birdsong. The news came with the approaching storm; our neighbor was returning home to spend the last days of her life among family, friends, and hospice caregivers. I raced to welcome her with a mysterious purple potted flower, hand cream, and lip balm. Troubled, frantic, sorrowful, glad. A confusing homecoming.
Thoughts of death mingling with plans for seed planting. Melancholy and lists of humorous first lines from imaginary books read aloud to me by my husband in bed. Rainfall, distant sirens, and sighs from the cat. Memory of a small velvety brown leaf, perfectly formed, blown in by the storm. I placed it carefully where it did not belong: on a tiny white pedestal in a visual merchandising display.
In the center of our neighborhood stands an old oak tree that predates the housing development. It has an official title, “The Heritage Tree.” Two years ago, an arborist said that it was dying and would have to be removed. An abysmal depression gripped me. Another arborist was called, and the tree was saved. In the center of our neighborhood stands an old oak tree.
In the center of our neighborhood stands an old oak tree.
In the center of our neighborhood stands an old oak tree.