the cherry tree

My husband has been out in the front yard for the last half hour chopping branches off my weeping Japanese cherry tree. I know this because I just now looked out the window and spotted him, too late to prevent the damage. No longer weeping, the Japanese cherry is now prostrate with grief.

I am so glad I am sober today.

Just looking at him, I see him carefully, tidily stacking the branches beside the scene. It is indeed a scene, and I would not be surprised if someone came from the Holden Arboretum to draw a chalk outline and take forensic photographs. He is dusting off his khakis, separating branches into tidy piles of graduating size and no doubt humming a little tune to himself. I cannot tell if he is actually humming, because the air conditioner is running and I cannot hear him with the windows closed. This also means that he cannot hear me, which is at this juncture a great blessing to us both. If he is humming a little tune, it is a happy one, because he has Done Well. He is Doing Yardwork. He is a Good Boy.

About twice a summer, he Does Yardwork. In his lexicon, this involves assembling all kinds of cutting equipment, donning the proper khakis and butchering the living bejesus out of every green thing in the yard.

I am trained as a horticulturist. We have specimen trees and shrubs in our yard that one does not often see, carefully collected by me over the years and successfully cultivated in a climate where many of the species do not normally thrive. I am good at Growing Things.

He is trained as an architect. He likes clean, spare lines, order, form following function, uncluttered backgrounds. Plants are to soften corners of buildings or serve as vertical accents; otherwise they are cluttering the landscape. He is good at Cutting Things.

When he did this to my Corylus avellana ( a curly-branched hazel tree, quite a specimen and very slow growing) several years back, before I got sober, I will not tell you the things I said and did. I will tell you that I felt so bad afterward that I went to confession that week. I will also share with you that the priest all but roared at me to apologize to him immediately on going home or all the Hail Mary's in the Rosary would be of no avail as penance.

This time, I am calm. "People are more important than things" has always been a mantra of mine. It is hard for me to extend this to plants, but I can see that this is what I will have to do if I am to rise above this and handle it like a grownup. I am grateful for my sobriety; through God's grace I have been restored to a state of mind that will allow me to handle this kindly.

So, I am going to count to ten, wipe my face with a cool washcloth and take him a Popsicle.

It will even be safe for him to eat it this time.