Charlie stood frozen in the doorway, tears streaming down his little cheeks. ‘What’s wrong, hon?’ I asked. ‘The tree,’ he said, pointing at the huge Poinciana that lived in our front garden.
A week earlier, a large branch had fallen during a storm and the arborist had arrived that morning to check on the tree. To our dismay, he discovered that it was rotten to the core and would have to go. He just couldn’t save it.
The kids cried all the way to the school bus. ‘I’m going to cry all day,’ said Charlie. ‘I loved that tree,’ my daughter, Lily, added.
It was dusk when I returned home, but through the dying light I could make out a large scar on the landscape of our garden. The empty space seemed to reproach me.
When I spoke to friends and colleagues about our tree, they all seemed to relate. One colleague spoke of the death of a large Jacaranda in her childhood garden. Another, of his and his wife’s valiant efforts to save an old tree in their garden and their delight when it recovered. Other friends spoke of their deep sadness when neighbours sold up, and the new buyers cleared away beloved trees for new development.
— Read the rest over at Eureka Street —