the presence of absence II

A limb from a giant box elder crashed into our yard the other week, brought down by stiff winds and rain. It was massive, a tree growing off a tree. Long thick branches covered in thinner leafy ones. The debris took up an entire corner, tearing down a scrim of grape vines. For a week, I’d watched the foliage turn crisp and die. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

Chris cut away the leafy branches. And I attacked the six or seven main limbs, each about eight inches in diameter, several as long as ten feet. It took me hours to saw through them all. Heart throbbing, lungs heaving. After a while, I had to break every few minutes to catch my breath and rest my arm. The blade kept sticking, my grooves misaligned, the teeth accidentally tore through my pants. A neighbor offered me a chainsaw. I declined. Mounds of orange dust were scattered about like blood.

I carried the sawed pieces to the edge of the yard and carefully placed them in the overgrowth, like fallen children. Sweat dripped off my face and onto my shirt, my shoulders numb. I stood for a while staring at my progress. No foliage, no limbs. Just a thick grey body, a beast humped with blond stubs. Rings exposed, dark pink centers. I decided to call it a day. To dismantle the trunk would undoubtedly mean a chainsaw. But I’ve come to love this tree, and often find myself at the kitchen window looking out at the yard, the blond circles seeming to float in the corner, orbitting each other, mourning their fallen host. I stare until I can see no more, afraid to lose sight, afraid to lose my understanding.