The great grandpa tree has been felled... In it's place now lies earth that has been dug out and mounds of wet mud scattered around. Scraps of wood clutter the path where the grass had been. The whole park seems to be in mourning; the squirrels must sorely miss their giant wooded play ground with it's sculpted trunk and serpentine branches, thick and strong, and the foliage dense and inviting; the dogs haven't come out to play, the birds haven't chirped as much. Perhaps it is all in my imagination? It must not be. The emptiness cries out aloud as I turn the corners of the library on my evening walk, I have to force myself to look away and content myself with the other trees, some younger, just beginning to establish themselves into the ground around the periphery of the park, and others a little older, their leaves downcast and sorrowful; the torchbearers for future generations of children to shade themselves under, birds to teasingly chase scampering squirrels down from and for wisdom to provide to the tender little grass-lings swaying gently in the wind.
No, there shan't be that waft of eucalyptus to tingle my senses with the breeze. There will no longer be the live mural behind the windows of the library in the children's corner. The sunlight streaming in now, unobstructed, seems a harsh reminder of what we've lost. A monument that endured for a century despite what killed it from within, an atrocity we wreaked on it. Yet forgiving and ever gracious, it stood by and smiled upon us gently. Just like a grandparent does a mischievous grandchild...
Dear, dear great grandpa tree, we miss you!