Tonight, we burned the crabapple trees.
We were young when we first planted them over 45 years ago. On the cusp of parenthood, we had just moved into our new home, and our yard was a barren landscape. Endeavoring to add a bit of color and partially block the country road that ran by us, we chose three crabapple trees to anchor our corner.
Although we knew nothing about gardening or landscaping, our small crabapple trees flourished, and before long, we had three young sons climbing their branches, using their trunks as boundaries for whiffle ball games, or gathering with other neighborhood kids under their fluttering shade as they waited for the school bus.
As the boys grew, so did the crabapple trees. Each spring, their deep rosy buds bursting into bigger umbrellas of glorious pink blossoms, the petals eventually covering our yard like a sprinkling of confetti. Regrettably, we never ate the fruit, but the birds and bees surely did. Over the decades, as our once country road became busier and busier, our growing crabapples trees kindly provided a lovely shield of privacy for our home.
Sadly, over the past few years, the crabapple trees began to decline until only half of one is left, branches from the others now burning softly in our fireplace. Their rosy-red coals still sending out bursts of light and beauty.
In our noisy, troubled world, we so often take for granted the simple gifts that bring us delight, and so I intend to sit here quietly until the last flame has flickered out and give thanks for the crabapple trees.
In doing so, perchance once more, I will see their rosy blossoms blooming in the flames.
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