We lived in a house made of stone, the secret being the walls were double thick; a layer of rectangular-cut blocks layered over what only could be called boulders. The house came at a cheap price, as some of the iron rods holding the two layers together had let go, allowing the south side of the house to develop a bulge, the stone blocks heaving away from the inner wall. It was scary, who knows how long it had taken to develop, but architectural consensus gave the outcome of an exploding stone bomb waiting for a heavy truck to go by to jostle things along.
Years passed, it was repaired by a stonemason who knew his business well; this is how I was able to see the amount and size of the immense rocks taken out of the opened wall and numbered. The house was stabilized, and became a loved place to live. Not that it wasn't prior to repair, it was one of those circumstances of walking in to view the place and feeling a tide, a current pulling you to home.
I scraped windows that had been painted shut and learned how to tie the cast iron weights with rope around pulleys, allowing them to open and stay up without being propped. The original part of the building had been constructed in 1860, and the story goes that it was a central location for farmers to bring produce, hence the double stone to keep things cooler. In 1904, it was purchased and made into a residential house, with a kitchen, dining area, and pantry added onto the back. Echoes of past life permeated its bones; I still have a slug that I dug out of a door, and some of the square-headed nails used for the first roof.
Brian, our boy, loved the house, and one day brought home a tree seedling, growing in a cut-off milk carton from school. He was ten, in fifth grade, and took care of his little tree which took hold and was transplanted into a regular pot at first, and then to an honored place in the front yard. He named it Alphonse.
Life changed and the house was sold, but the tree, a honey locust, grew tall; it was a part of my son still attached to a home he had loved. He visited the tree whenever he came back into town with a slow drive down the street, introducing his wife and daughter to the memory. This year, this time, it was different.
"They cut the tree down, must have just happened; there are still wood chips in the front yard". It wasn't our property or our tree any more, things are transient and learning to accept them is a part of growing up. But here I am, even at my grown age, feeling a small pang of loss. What my son feels is considerably more, a further good bye to a small mark that he put on the earth.
Who knows what happened; there was a whipping wind storm a couple of weeks ago, the tree may have snapped or been too damaged. I can't imagine any other reason for a tree that the newer people lived with for years to be taken down mid-winter. Did the roots damage underground pipes, were the tiny leaves clogging gutters? All conjecture, none of that matters, truly. All in all, Alphonse the tree lived for almost 32 seasons of leafing out in spring, sleeping in winter.
Letting go is one of the best things that one can do; not to forget, but to release tethers that keep you in one spot. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, be kind, don't hurt others. Guess that's my best unasked for advice. Other things to care for will come and go, to exist in memory as a blanket against the tirade of stress and pressure. Yes, they will. I promise, and I never make promises.
Sleep; the dark nights of frost create a yearning to huddle and hibernate. Finnegan the Orange One is meowing for the bedtime snack to be revealed, city lights from my window travel in rows, outlining streets and spires. Make good things happen, fling open windows and breathe the clear, cold January air. Sleep well and deeply, the boat of dreams calls, sail among the stars. Good night.
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