To all a good night

Yesterday during our snow “storm”, at the coldest point of the day, the tree man, Bill, came by to talk to me about a tree at the corner of our house. He’d just gotten his mother home from a doctor’s appointment in Saint Louis and was running late or we would have missed the chill. I like his tree company and I find his crew hardworking and fun. I like that the first time he came for a broken branch on a pine in the backyard he brought his granddaughter who he was helping look after during the school closure(s). (I wrote one of my first pandemic poems about that visit.) And I really like to support a hometown business.

The tree is an ornamental pear variety filled right now with cherry size fruit. The birds love them because they’ve frozen and grown soft. The tree looks amazing but over hangs the roof (half its leaves are lining the rain gutters I’m pretty sure) and its roots are working their way toward the foundation. We talked solutions and options and possibilities. Next Jerry and I will talk possibilities and options and solutions; what would we put there if the tree needs to leave (tree-leave…tee hee).

I asked Bill if he’s been busy and he said it’s constant which is good all around. Then he pulled his long, mostly white beard up under his chin and said “Guess who I am?” And told me they’d gotten the Santa suit out of the closet and he had his first appearance scheduled that night for an Alzheimer’s home. He said throughout December he is a drop in Santa as needed throughout the community. As he left, and the snow skittering about, he got to his pickup door and said Merry Christmas and let out a warmup “Ho Ho HO!”

Tender light

The tree guy, Bill, and his granddaughter,
Eveline, are making their rounds.
She is eight and is being reminded
by Bill, keep six feet now. She’s
in his care during the pandemic
knowing it’s yard work only, a little
walking, some safe distance questions
from homeowners. I question her:
she’s in second grade, her favorite
class is math and yesterday she caught
two bluegills with Grampa Bill.
She’s shimmering like a dandelion,
full of tender light, she steps closer
until Grandpa tells her, six feet
honey, remember, and she dances
away. She’s the kind of girl who wants
to come close, share wonder, reach
for your hand. Soon, I think, soon.
As they leave, she waves and waves.