Dad planted a maple behind our house 
after he and mom bought the place
forty-some years ago. The tree grew quickly,
providing shade for the deck in back.

From there, we used to watch thunderstorms 
approach over the mountain to our west. 
The tree was stalwart in the wind and seemed 
to be immune against lightning strikes. 

After dad died, it continued to thrive,
but one day mom noticed the trunk showed signs
of distress: sloughing wide strips of bark,
trickles of liquid oozing underneath.

The maple being a memorial 
of sorts to her beloved husband
she did not want to have it removed,
despite the risk it might fall on her house.

She called an arborist for advice.
He asked if the tree was ever damaged.
She told him it was not, then remembered
when they knocked down the old barn

to build a garage: due to a small error, 
the barn fell at slightly the wrong angle,
and a rafter hit the base of the tree
as it collapsed onto the ground.

Though this happened when the tree was young
and it had not appeared worse off as a result,
the arborist explained it can take time 
for trees to reveal their injuries after harm.

He could not guarantee any outcome.
It would cost money she needed for other things.
She thought about it, then decided to pay
his fee for applying a salve to the tree’s wound.

The maple endured another four years –
its branches I climbed in as a kid 
that elevated me above the house  
also harboring nests for doves and robins,

a hook in its trunk for the hammock 
where dad would sway during his summer break, 
the painted fern at its base flourishing
under a broad canopy of leaves –

before treatment applied met the limits
of effectiveness and mom saw the tree, 
threatening to rot and topple, did need 
to be removed. She watched while it was cut 

into logs. A swath of yard opened, 
bathed in full sun for the first time in decades, 
hosta around the garage’s foundation 
wincing at their sudden exposure.