I tried to relax for my afternoon nap but I couldn’t get my head to shut down. Every time I would get close to oblivion I would catch myself from falling out of a tree.
Not just any tree. The tree. A huge elm tree. It’s been here longer than my mother or grandmother could remember. This time of year the back porch has to be swept each day because of the multitude of red winter buds that the wet springtime breezes dislodge from its towering branches. I have to be cautious of where these buds are swept, never deposited in the flower gardens that surround my nineteenth century home. These particular elm buds seem to contain seeds that quickly sprout, take root, and overshadow the delicate lilies, peonies, vinca, and poppies.
I finally give up and heave myself off the couch when I hear my youngest running down the sidewalk. She never walks from the bus stop to home. It’s the same sound every day: tiny lavender sneakers slamming against the cement, accompanied by breathless shouts.
“I’ll meet you on the trampoline in five minutes!”
In the door she races, smiling to expose each of her newly formed and crowded teeth.
“Hey Mom. You put the screen on the door.”
“I thought it was time.”
It’s always wonderful to replace the glass storm door with screen. Every aspect of it changes the dynamics of the house. As it slams behind her we both notice the different sound it makes compared to the heavy glass we use during the winter. We collectively decide that we missed the forgotten sound, the sound of spring vacation. It seems like a lifetime since we’ve heard it, and are as hungry for it as we are for potato salad at the Mother’s Day BBQ, or associating the color green with the smell of first-cut grass.
“Go open the door, and let it slam again.”
Most of the time she loves my little quirky games, and I can feel that this is one of those fortunate times. It’s obvious that she is smiling even though I can only see her back as she quickly heads to the door.
Her compact and excited expression changes to boredom after three slams and she asks what we have to eat. I go through a list, the same list as every other weekday. This day she asks for toast with jelly.
“I’ll be waiting in the living room.”
“Do you want milk?”
“Yes, please.”
Always so polite. Demanding, yes. But consistently polite. She gobbles down her snack while watching a few minutes of SpongeBob. The door slams again, the melodious novelty already wearing thin. I hear her moments later exuberantly dictating the rules of a seemingly complicated game to the neighboring kids.
I grab my broom on my way outside to the porch and sweep the elm buds away. I notice tiny elm trees among the fragile tea roses and bend down to pull them out. I meticulously pile them up into a neat stack as I weed. When I have gathered a substantial amount I get the can of gasoline from the shed, dowse the pile of saplings, and throw a match. The violence of the flame is short-lived and melodramatic. I feel stealthy satisfaction.
I put the gas can away, grab the lopping shears in one calloused hand and the rickety ladder in the other. Every year there is one area of the elm that needs trimming. If I don’t get at it soon enough, I’ll end up trimming the branches while dangling off of the edge of the roof. I’ve had to perform this dangerous feat in previous years after I noticed midsummer that the kitchen was not getting any light at all. I couldn’t look out of the window at my bee balm, or the family of fox training their fuzzy pups, or the hummingbirds, or the deer, or the wild turkeys, or a ballgame.
While I’m washing my hands at the kitchen sink my older daughter impatiently beckons from the bathroom.
“Mom, come see if there are any curls in the back of my hair.”
“Coming” I sing back at her. Her music drowns out my reply. She doesn’t need to hear my voice, she knows I heard her request and will come.
As I dry my hands I can see a branch of the elm that I neglected to trim. I put it on my mental list of
tasks to complete soon and head toward the bathroom. The counter is cluttered with hair products, make-up I no longer use, and her straightening iron. I keep to myself the fact that I prefer the curls God gave her. She’s fifteen. She wants her hair to be straight and Godless. I see the harsh reflection of my dirty fingernails and ragged cuticles in the mirror as I pluck a few of her stray eyebrows. She angles the mirror for a better glimpse, until I notice that the monstrous elm has become the backdrop, framing her expectant face.
It will shade the trampoline soon.
