So I walked in the house to the Beneficent Mr. Hall saying, “They’re coming to cut down those trees.”
What? The trees? The cherry blossom trees? You’re chopping them down???
I stomped up the stairs–and muttered under my breath about being the last to know about the goings on going on in this house, and spending money on chopping down trees, and harrumph, harrumph, harrumph.
And before I had even stopped harrumphing, the tree guys came and bzzzzzzz. Crack. One cherry blossom tree down. Then bzzzzzzzzzzz. Crack, crack, crack. The other cherry blossom tree down. Twenty years of cherry blossom trees, gone. Just. Like. That.
Now, honestly, the trees had died from some marauding cherry blossom beetle. And the Beneficent Mr. Hall had said months ago that the trees had to go. I mean, out of the blue, limbs just dropped off the cherry blossom trees. It’s a wonder that no one had been knocked out cold. But still…
I stood outside, watching those trees fall down and I felt like crying. It’s silly, I know. But I loved those cherry blossom trees. I loved the pink blooms, carpeting the trees. I loved how the flower petals fell at the same time, and when the wind blew, it looked like snow swirling across my driveway. And for weeks after, mounds of petals littered the yard and when I walked through them, bursts of white flicked up from my feet. Until finally, the petals drifted away. I wonder where they went?
I’ll miss those trees. And I didn’t even have a picture of them.