There is a tree in the middle of my front yard. It is a lovely tree, green and flowering in the springtime, wafting it’s perfume through the yard. I shoot pictures of it every season, because with each new season, it takes on a new life, new colors, new character. It has hosted prom goers, Christmas lights, robin’s nests, frisbees, and battling Jedi knights.
My husband hates that tree. It didn’t do anything to him, and it hasn’t done anything to our yard besides leave it’s tiny green apples scattered for the birds and squirrels to gather. By no fault of the tree, it was planted directly on top of our septic tank.
The tree will force us to have to hook up to the sewer one day, that is his fear. I don’t believe it.
I love that tree, with it’s lovely green leaves turning golden and red and orange and yellow in fall. I love it with it’s frost covered branches and those few tiny apples and leaves that cling through the snow storms and winds of winter.
And in the spring it always greets me once again with pink flowers and perfume. It just wouldn’t be spring without that tree.
And this year he says he will chop it down. Again. This yearly threat he makes. STOP.
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