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Every morning and night I take a walk and talk with trees. Over the past few weeks my conversation partners have become fewer and fewer. The bulk of many of my multi-ringed friends is now waiting on the wood pile or pulp pile to do their next transformative service.
The dear "barber tree" by Gladys' children's park tries to keep everyone's spirits up by sprouting leaves even as part of her top rests by her side. She said she knew this was coming. She said they said she had rot and there was fear of disease. She hopes because of her efforts they will let her stump, some part of her, stay.
She wants to remain a confidant and pillar of the community; imagines she could be a toddler table worthy of their demands and efforts or a handy stool for a child's devoted, beloved guardian; paper on which someone learns to write and in turn learns about the right to be.
Some lovely someone celebrated one of the mighty Tabor Trees with this beautiful garden.
So many shade giving friends are no longer smiling down at us.
Yet, their rooty, remembering faces keep watch of us now from the ground.
Looking up with recognition, wisdom, questions, hope
There are many young trees here too. A century ago a woman who loved left an endowment to ensure the grove would grow. Old trees would be nursed and taken care, young trees would be planted and nurtured. It remains hard to say goodbye to dear old friends and it takes time to make new ones.
But there are new friends to make. I am grateful to that woman and for this place.