I’ve always lived in this home. My parents raised me here and passed it on to me when they retired. My wife joined me here when we got married. She likes the place alright but she doesn’t have the same affection for it as I do. And now that we have to get our tree lopped, she doesn’t understand…
The tree is a great big wilting willow and is over a hundred years old. Willows are, in my opinion, the most mysterious and mystical of the trees. They’re grand and secretive, appearing to whisper when the wind blows through their branches. If you’ve ever read Algernon Blackwood’s story about them then you’ll have some idea of their mystical powers. Anyway, my wife seems to think that we’re in need of an arborist. “Melbourne is too small a city for such big trees,” she says, “The thing simply has to go.” This particular willow has belonged to the house since I was just a wee lad, and the thought of lopping it down is like considering severing a limb. I’d do anything not to see it go.
I don’t know how to convey my affections for this tree to my impervious and callous wife. “Take one look at that tree,” I said, pointing out the window, “You’re going to cut that thing done?!” She blinked at me, oblivious to the tree’s beauty or magnetism, and said, “It’s interfering with the power lines. And next time the wind blows, our roof is going to cave in.” Always so pragmatic, so unfeeling. While she sits there calling the arborists and talking equably about tree feeling, I cannot stand the thought of tree removal. Melbourne deserves more willows. If she dares to cut down my beloved tree, I’ll go on a tree-planting spree just to spite her. See how she likes that.