There I was, standing in my backyard, reciprocating saw with a nine inch wood cutting blade in my hands. I’d plugged it into the 200 foot long extension cord that ran from the house.
It started 27 years ago, when the tree sprouted from the ground. She told me not to cut it. “Wait and see what it does.” Six months later, she declared it was a mimosa tree, and she liked it, and we were going to let it grow.
The years went by, and it grew like a weed. Must have reached 30 feet tall. Had three main branches from the trunk, and those had several branches of their own. For the first twenty years, it grew, and each year, it leafed out, and it filled the back yard with pink mimosa flowers, and hundreds of seed pods.
Until the year it stopped. That’s it. It just stopped. No leaves. No flowers. No seed pods. Nothing. The leaves all fell off for the winter, and they never came back.
I left it alone for years, because she’d told me not to cut it down all those years ago. But, finally, she decided it was dead, and needed to go.
Which was why I was standing there. Looking at that dead tree. And why I looked at the saw in my hands, and asked, “Any volunteers to put him out of his misery?”
The saw happily ripped that dead tree down.
It’s Week 492 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the stories in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who show up every week.