Two trees frame my backyard, planted from rogue seedlings sprung in fallow pots, thirty-one, twenty-eight years ago, when I sowed the two saplings above the afterbirth of my two sons.
Alders were what I had in the pot at the time. There was no master plan, no forced metaphor in mind. I save things without knowing why. I’ve always embraced the present regardless of whether it may compromise my future.
But as I slide into the depths of my “Old-timers” malady, And see these two trees sway out my back window, I weep at the sight of my towering boys fighting for sunlight and their father’s love.