Red oak

A giant red oak in a copse of trees behind the house died this summer.  80 feet tall, with a thick trunk the color of slate, mottled with lichens and moss, deeply etched with crevice and chasm, the tree is the largest in the garden.  This spring, smallish leaves emerged and they slowly waned during the long hot summer.  By August,  the tree was beyond help, its enormous crown threatening the house. 

A woodcutter was hired.  One day soon, his trucks will arrive and by the end of the day, there will be a hole in the canopy that shelters my woodland garden from the brutal summer sun.

Labor Day marks the end of summer on the calendar, but in the South, the morning air is still sultry.  But one day in October, I wake at 6:45 as always, but when I step out of the house, the breeze is cool and crisp. 

And at the end of that day, when I drive home from work, I will turn on my headlights for the first time of the season.  The long hot summer that I swore would never end, will be suddenly over.

Everything stays the same until one day it doesn't.

I have lived with the same man for 35 years.  I have worked at the same job for 30.  I have lived in the same house for 25. 

Change does not come easily.

We moved to our home with 2 small girls, who grew up and moved away. I kept a childrens' place for them until one day, the space was needed for someone else.  And then I understood that the children were never coming back.

 Life moved on.