Like a Little Grave
Today the groundskeeper cleared away the fallen gum tree leaving a patch of dirt within the neatly trimmed lawn, like a little grave.
Yesterday the thing had lain full length in the school yard.
The previous night, during the electrical storm, a shock of lightning had snapped the tree at the roots.
The day before, an elderly woman had visited the front office ladies to say this may be her last year. It was getting to be too much.
One week earlier, on the anniversary, she had knelt at those roots like a pilgrim before an altar. Once more she tied a bouquet with an emerald green ribbon around the trunk and, between the bow and the bark, inserted a little card with a photograph of a fresh-faced young someone on the front.
Ten years before, she had knelt in the same spot and planted that tree in his memory.
Today the groundskeeper cleared away the gum tree leaving a patch of dirt within the neatly trimmed lawn, like a little grave.
