The Tree-Morial

As I type this, I can see a pine tree I planted when I was in second grade. The tree, a 10-cent sapling at the time, was given to me by my mother as a gift for St. Patrick's Day. A bit of the green, if you will. We planted it in the backyard of my childhood home in San Diego.

Since then, the tree and I have grown... it a touch taller than I. My mom passed away, and I moved away, but the tree remained.

And, though trees generally have a longer lifespan than us bipeds, its days are numbered. It is not sick, no. Instead, its strength is causing its downfall, its 40-feet worth of pine needles choking the draining system of my neighbor's pool. A nuisance, a fire hazard, a danger. And, so, it was decided that the best for all involved would be to take it down.

But before it went, my dad callled me down from Burbank for a tree-morial, a chance to say so long. Funny to think it will soon be gone, the green expanse that seems to be in nearly every photo of our backyard, its shade that comforted each one of our pets.

So, a moment of silence on the keypad for the tree, which I never thought to name, because I never thought I would need to.