Cutting Down The Tree

The last of the five Blue Spruce trees from my grandmother’s farm is being cut down from my parents’ backyard. It has been there for more than 30 years. This is the tree that my mom and I took a picture beside when I was a wee one. The picture that reminds me of Maya and me.

I suppose the tree is reminiscent of life.

The tree starts out as a young sapling. Each branch, fighting through the other limbs, reaching for the light, represents a different path one could follow. As the tree grows taller and sturdy, its roots bore into the soil firmly establishing its foundation. The tree continues to flourish through harsh winters, and hot and dry summers. Its needles only falling off to let new ones grow.

The days wear on, and the time comes when the tree no longer thrives. Its needles drop, like memories forgotten, its branches worn and brittle. But as the tree is cut down piece by piece, its root still remain. Roots are much harder to remove. Even when the tree is gone, its roots shall forever be at home.