Trees

Today we said goodbye to four more piñon pines.

Four.

At this rate, the bark beetles are running a very aggressive real estate operation in our little town, and apparently piñons are their preferred luxury condos.

One of the trees was over thirty years old. Thirty years is a respectable run for anything in the high desert, where survival itself feels like a daily negotiation. Water is precious, shade is currency, and every green thing seems to grow with the determination of a stubborn old cowboy.

Terry and I have always loved trees.

Not in the casual “oh, that’s a nice tree” sort of way, but in the deeply committed, slightly irrational way people love things that cannot text them back or say thank you. We planned watering schedules like military strategy. We monitored roots, checked needles, studied weather reports with the seriousness of stockbrokers.

High desert tree care is really just a long-term relationship built on hope, compromise, and hoses.

Not glamorous.

But meaningful.

We tried to be responsible. To conserve water and still keep things alive. It is a balancing act out here, like trying to carry a bowl of soup across a trampoline.

Possible, but not without consequences.

Last year we lost two evergreens, our little Christmas trees. One of them had a history with us. It began as part of our very first Christmas in this home, somehow surviving months of winter indoors before earning a permanent place outside our bedroom window.

It felt almost like a family member with roots.

When I told Terry both trees had died, he looked at me quietly and said, “Honey, that’s a sign.”

Then he left the sentence hanging there like an ornament no one wanted to touch.

At the time, I had no idea what he meant. I was mostly focused on dead trees and whether I had somehow failed them.

A few weeks later, Terry passed away.

Only much later did his words come back to me, softer than before.

Still, I am not sure I want to give trees that much responsibility for cosmic messaging. They already have enough going on.

Today, as we removed these sick piñons, I could almost hear Terry in my head being practical about it all.

“Well, sweetheart, better us than the neighbors.”

And he would be right.

Removing infected trees is the responsible thing to do, however unceremonious it feels. It is a strange kind of kindness, cutting something down in order to protect what remains.

There is wisdom in that.

The landscape will look different now. A little more open. A little less shaded. But not empty.

Never empty.

The mountains are still standing there like patient witnesses. The wind still moves through the grasses. And the remaining trees, bless their determined little souls, continue holding their ground.

So I look around the neighborhood and feel oddly comforted.

We did our part.

Terry would approve of that.

And somewhere, I suspect, he is still rooting for the trees.

Pun absolutely intended.