By: Don Tassone

     He’d lived in his house for 20 years and planted every tree in his yard.  His favorite was an American cherry.  He had planted it as a sapling.  Now it was big, strong and stately.  It wasn’t the largest tree in his yard, but it was easily the most beautiful.

     He especially loved its white blossoms in springtime.  He loved how, in the peach light, just after sunrise or just before sunset, they changed color, as if they were welcoming the day or bidding it farewell.

     Late one summer, he noticed the leaves on one of the tree’s four main branches had begun to turn brown.  All the other leaves were still dark green.

     Concerned, he checked for insects but saw none.  Maybe it needs water, he thought.  It had been a hot, dry summer.

     He stretched his hose to the tree and let it trickle at the base for an hour a day.  But the brown leaves began to fall off.  So he sprinkled granular fertilizer from the trunk to the drip line, then watered to activate the nutrients and let them penetrate the soil.

     But nothing worked.  All the leaves on the branch in distress were now brown.  Most had become crisp and fallen off.

     He pulled off a small shoot, hoping it would be pliable and green at its base.  But it snapped right off.

     He noticed the smooth bark of that branch had begun to flake.  He peeled off a few of the flakes.  The wood underneath looked dry and gray.

     He knew what he had to do.  He had to remove the big, dead branch or risk losing the tree.

     He went into his garage and got his bow saw.  It felt as heavy as his heart.  He trudged out to the tree, put his hand on the trunk and said, “I’m sorry.”

     Then he raised the saw, set its teeth on the dead branch near the trunk and began cutting.  He felt as though he were operating on an old friend.  He didn’t want to hurry.  He wanted to go slow and be careful.

     It took him 30 minutes to amputate that limb.  When it creaked and crashed to the ground, he stood over it, bowed his head and asked for forgiveness.

     The following spring, as the crocuses and daffodils bloomed, he walked out to the cherry tree every day to check on it, eager to see buds on all its remaining branches.

     When they emerged, he smiled.  When they blossomed, he cried.

     That summer, there was a big gap in the branches of that tree.  But as the years went by, the gap closed until the tree once again became whole.

     He thought about his life differently after that.  He grew mindful of the parts that were not good for him, and he cut them out.  In this way, over time, he too became whole.

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Don Tassone is the author of two novels, one novella, 10 short story collections and one children’s book.  He lives in Loveland, Ohio.