Ripped from the Earth

It was in the way, where the tree grew. The roots were strong, but not strong enough for the great jaws that came and ripped it from the warm soil.

“Awww, does it have to go?” I whined.

“It does.” Came the response, calm, cool and collected. There was no emotional reaction there, though I wanted, no needed to see one.

“But that’s the tree we planted with our kiddo.” My lips pouted. “Can’t we just leave it?”

“No.”

We watched, together, hand in hand as the machine came and dug its neat hole in the ground. We watched as it swallowed up the tree in its jaw, wrapped it in a prickly canvas bundle and drove it away.

“It’s done.”

He pulled away from me and sipped his coffee, engrossed in the newspaper again. I wiped at my own tears as quickly and quietly as I could. Then I stood, collected a bag of my most precious things and walked out the door.

He didn’t even look up.

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