Entry #30

Remembrance
By Roger Dale Trexler


On the day she left, I planted the tree. I brought the poor, feeble twig home from work at the Conservation Department to a barren house.

It wasn’t supposed to survive. It did.

I remember thinking that the tree symbolized my love for her. I told her as much; she laughed. “You’re an idiot, Craig,” she said in that smug tone she developed after she ran off with the other man. “You’re a goddamned idiot! A tree? What kind of idiot plants a tree to symbolize his love for someone?”

“I thought you’d understand? I thought you cared for me?”

“Tree hugging idiot!” She shook her head and walked away.

She went to him.

That was ten years ago. The tree flourished. Every morning, I saw it out the window. It reminded me of her, the gentleness of who she used to be.

Before him.

When she cared about me.

But, that was long ago.

Now, I stare out the window, the telephone still in my hand. Tears are falling down my cheek and dripping onto the cold metal. I can’t look down at it. Not yet.

A car wreck. Head-on. She died instantly, they said. It’s a small comfort to a man who still loves her.

I cry harder. Soon, I’ll look down at the saw. I’ll use the handsaw to cut it down. I wouldn’t destroy my love for her with a chainsaw. It’s too impersonal.

And, I did love her so.