Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Prescient Precedent

You chopped down the tree.

The big one, in the front yard, where Shellie and I used to play.

The one with the faded paint around the base that my grandfather put there - why? I never learned.

The willow outside my window, whose graceful branches shielded me from a world that probably wasn't looking anyway.

You chopped down the tree.

The tree that meant the world to me.

The tree that - maybe? - obscured your view

without stopping to think

how it might have shaped mine.

You chopped down the tree

and with it, a piece of me.


I wrote this piece around midnight last night. I woke this morning to find my favorite tree had been torn up by the roots, was completely blocking our driveway, and had destroyed a fence.

Had the tree fallen another way, it would have taken out our power lines, or, more dangerously, landed in my bedroom, where I was sleeping.

I am convinced that my penning this piece is somehow connected to the downing of this tree. It isn't the first time I have had a strange sense about something, only to have it happen within hours.

Pics are proof:

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