In your North Shore neighborhood, there are more trees than people. You figure they’ve been there forever, and they’re going to stay forever.
They screen the street so you’re somewhat isolated from what’s going on in the world. Although you get glimpses…
You catch sight of a jogger every morning. A wiry, elderly guy with a steady pace. He appears like clockwork. Your dog barks at him pretty much the same time every day. His routine doesn’t change. It’s as dependable as the fact of old trees, and you like that.
After a while you notice you’re not seeing the jogger as regularly. And when you do, his gait has changed to a fast walk, not exactly running. Your dog doesn’t bark at him, but just looks on with canine curiosity.
Neighbors down the block who know the man mention they’d heard he’d been sick. Time passes, and one day there’s a line of cars parked near the house where you assume he lived. Somber people are going in and out.
You don’t see the jogger any more after that.
Around this time, the forestry department sends crews to put tags on a bunch of fine looking old trees lining your property. They tell you the trees have to be cut down. Ash Borer disease, something like that. There’s no choice.
Soon, the rustic quiet of your street is broken by roaring power saws and wood chippers. After the dust settles, there are fewer trees. Wider gaps. More light comes through. And you can see the world out there as it is, a little more clearly.
