I heard a rustling as I lay in bed reading late the other night. A swishing, hushed sound reminded me of noises heard in the darkened backstage of a ballet as dancers hurriedly swept by one another their satin tutus brushing.
The light of day revealed the source of rustling as trembling leaves that slid past the branches of a neighboring tree and continued downward bringing with them our hopes of hanging onto our dying oak tree for one more October.
This tree has stood proud sentinel at our house since 1931. It has shaded us and others from the heat of the day and served as base for games of hide and seek. Like a resolute palace guard it managed not to flinch even when draped in ribbons of toilet paper following a teenage prank.
As much as I dread the thought of cutting it down, this mighty oak is much too dignified to continue losing great chunks of itself until it finally falls.
There is a sting that accompanies the demise of the grand oak, an acknowledgement that time for each of us is fleeting and finite.
a story in eight lines