The street I live on is lined with large, Plane trees that are deciduous in nature. They are a constant reminder of London’s four seasons, and for me, personally, a way of attuning my mind to what’s coming next. They personify the lyrical concepts of a joyous spring and a maturing autumn sun; the lively summer and a bare winter. They were a big factor when C and I decided we wanted to live on this street.
Yesterday was one of those days that I’d colloquially term as ‘blah’. I was physically and mentally tired. On the way home, I only thought about getting into bed as soon as I could. But I wasn’t prepared for the sharp pain I was going to experience between getting home and reaching my bed. The tree in front of my house was completely bare, bereft of any leaves whatsoever. All the trees on the street have recently started changing colour and have at least another six weeks before they shed all their leaves. I was not prepared for this shock to say the very least. Hot tears ran down my face as I struggled to take the five steps past the tree and turn the keys to get away from the cold and wet outdoors. I am sure whoever did it was doing their job. I cannot rule out the possibility of the tree being felled as have a couple of others whose roots had started to grow too far to be considered safe for neighbouring buildings.
It has been like family the last three years. I don’t think I can prepare for its absence.