The tree in our front yard is about to be cut down. It’s been with us for nearly 30 years. My kids used to climb that tree when they were younger. Days before my younger son’s best friend moved away, we took a picture of them together in that tree. The picture is framed and on display in our house.
Footballs, tennis balls, golf balls and baseballs have bounced off its trunk. I don’t know how many badly thrown Frisbees had to be retrieved from its branches. We sat in its shade and admired its flowers, but it dawns on me now we don’t even know what type of tree it is.
We’ve raked the leaves. Trimmed the branches. Cut away the suckers. Evidently, we didn’t do enough because its branches are now inundated with the larvae of tent caterpillars. The city’s forestry department cut down two other badly infected trees on our block. Ours is next. We may get a new one, but it still feels like we’re losing an old friend.