There isn’t even a stump left.

Just a lumpy patch of grass

at the base of an embarrassingly shallow hill that

melts into the rest of the yard.

Line of evergreens along the back, a garage

and bug-infested shed (that should probably

just be torn down at this point)

Spanning behind a brand new deck,

four years in the making, which

(for the hassle it was to get it there) does look rather nice.

Trampoline of little use now that we’re both

too big and busy for it, and soot-covered

firepit that hasn’t been lit since late June.

So much has changed, but a vacant memory of what was

still lingers like a ghost afraid to move on.

Except the tree.

 

I loved that tree growing up.

The maze of grey branches I quickly learned to navigate.

Which ones to grab to pull myself up,

where to place my feet and

the most comfortable spaces to lean in.

Clustering together at just the right time to

make it impossible to climb too high, because

even then I wasn’t afraid of death’s patient arms

and would have gone to the top if I’d been able.

All the way, where the branches grew thin and unsteady,

shook spasmically in the breeze.

There was one sturdy enough, (and I’m

still surprised at how well it did) to hold

the monkey swing under our weight. We weren’t light, and

sometimes piled two or three bodies on top

of that little plastic seat. But the tree looked out for us.

Not once let us touch the ground, even as

the rope frayed and boughs dipped.

 

During summer, we hung

unsuccessful birdfeeders on lower branches,

used the tree as a base or a fort in

imaginary games I’ve long forgotten the rules to.

Chased one another with water guns around the trunk

then ate popsicles with our backs against the wooden column.

In fall, when leaves made their yearly transition

from vibrant green to

crunchy brown red yellow orange.

Fell, at first, too slow, then all at once. Raked

into mountains and jumped into when we were

little enough to get away with it. My dad would

pile them in a wheelbarrow

and my brother and I would climb in and we’d go

around and around the yard like we were on a roller-coaster,

a spaceship, a race car, or simply a wheel-barrow full of leaves.

Winter brought snow; white frosted branches,

icicles dangling like translucent earrings. The tree watched us

fail to make snowmen and lob compacted ice at one another.

Lay with our backs in the snow and

toboggin down that little hill. Running up and sliding down.

Up and down.

Up and down. Until our cheeks were red

with frostbite and the sun was sinking

and we, finally, retreated back inside.

Spring came around, and I’d watch, day by day, as

little buds turned back into widespread foliage.

Just in time for my birthday, which was customarily

held outside, on the old deck, loose boards

and peeling paint, the tree’s long arms stretching far enough

to offer comforting shade where we sat.

 

I can’t remember why we cut it down.

I can’t remember when we cut it down.

 

But somedays, when I glance

out the back window over the kitchen sink,

look at the familiar backyard that’s

been there my entire life, I occasionally

forget it was even there at all.