Everything looks a little crooked around here post-Irma.
Mailboxes, fences, street signs, trees.
Yes, I’m writing about trees again already.
The sycamore across the street from my house is leaning toward us where it used to stand straight and tall, its roots beginning to pull up the sidewalk. I wouldn’t be surprised if by this time next month it’s a stump.
The thought hurts my heart a little; it’s one of the few trees around here that changes color with the seasons. Its leaves usually wind up strewn across our yard, to the girls’ delight (and mine—is there anything better than the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet?). I wonder how different our street will look and feel once the city cuts it down—or once it falls, whichever comes first.
The mature trees in this neighborhood were a crucial selling point when we shopped for this house, our first home, more than seven years ago. They reminded me of the neighborhood I grew up in, named for its oaks. And this street, curvy and shaded, reminded Dan of the Cape Cod roads he grew up driving.
A few years wiser now, after losing a couple of damaged sweet gums, we eye the tallest ones warily, particularly when storm season rolls around. But I don’t think I’ll ever not grieve the loss when winds tear roots from the ground or when there’s no other choice but to cut.
31 days of paying attention is a month-long mission to document and give thanks for the everyday, mundane, and beautiful. It’s a series I’m writing for Write 31 Days, a yearly challenge in which bloggers pick one topic and write a post on that topic every day in October. Thanks for reading along!
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