It comes down today, this mighty oak, the tallest in the yard, once a noble specimen but now a victim of drought, development and Lord knows what else. It bravely endured the amputation of its leeward half, a move that was meant to save it or at least forestall its end. While that gave it a few more years, it was not enough. The executioners arrive in an hour to cut it down.
I've lost track of how many trees we've lost through the years, ones blown down by strong winds after soaking rains; ones felled before that can happen; and one that was cabled for years to keep it upright only to have it plunge to earth on a warm and still May morning.
I went out early this morning to say goodbye to the tree, patting its great hoary trunk, mossy and lichened. I thought of the games the children played at its feet, recalled the haphazard forsythia hedge that used to grow in front of it, the playhouse and sandbox that were there. I thought about its role in Suzanne and Appolinaire's wedding, when, decorated with a fern, it was witness to their vows.
Once it was one of a number; now, it's the last of its breed. There are no more 100-footers. They have died and gone away.
I know this is the right thing to do. The tree is rotting and weakened. If left to its own devices it could fall down, taking other trees and the neighbor's shed with it. But I will miss its shade in summer and its bare branches in winter. I will miss its salute to the sky.
