The neighbor's house is being demolished, two-and-one-half years after her death. Her son also decided to remove most of the large trees in her yard. The large fir that once sat in the middle of her front yard—like our own black walnut tree or the other neighbor's monkey tree, each situated right in the middle of our front yards—is coming down.
The sky opened up as limbs disappeared. More sky appeared as the trunk diminished. Houses we haven't been able to see from our yard or front window are now visible. Street lights a block over now shine their weak light upon our street at night.
Something so familiar—the neighbor's yard, her home, conversations with her in her living room—have all changed. Some things have died or disappeared. Others have been reframed, refreshed, renewed.
No comments:
Post a Comment