We have three redbud trees in our yard, in this home we have lived in for not even two years. We did not plant them, we have not loved them for very long. You wouldn't expect our connection with them to be very strong, but we are all entranced by them. Oldest learned that the buds are edible. The flowers are magical—fuchsia-pink and delicate. Their shape, with split trunks and spreading, twisting branches make them perfect for climbing on and sitting in without getting too far off the ground. Their heart-shaped leaves make them seem even more friendly—gracious, even. And because of when they bloom, they are inextricably linked with my grandma’s passing a year ago.
Monday we found out that we will lose two of them this summer. Six trees, in fact, between our home and our next-door neighbor’s, are scheduled to be taken out as part of a city sewer project. We try to teach our children that when you make a mess, you clean it up, when you take something out, you put it back, and when you break something, you take responsibility for replacing it. Our sidewalks and driveways will be replaced. Our trees, in my understanding, will not.
In the realm of things you can lose, this is pretty small. I have no doubt that everybody will bounce back. The sewer work is a welcome project, and sorely needed. But once again, I cannot protect my children from the loss. I cannot protect them from the growing list of things over which they have no control, things they thought were permanent but aren’t, things that just don’t seem fair. I can only tell them we’ll do what we always do in situations like this. We’ll make the best of it.
The thing is, they’re already way ahead of me. Oldest, even in the middle of his rage, took a clipping of his favorite tree and stuck it in a jar filled with dirt and water. And Middle, who cried, made this tribute in the back yard:
All I can think is that these trees are not yet finished with grace.
