I heard him say it for about the millionth time.
“It used to canopy my house,” he said wistfully of the Japanese maple that once shaded his townhouse. “It was 15 feet tall.”
Some years before my boyfriend and I met, a squirrel girded that maple, stripping it of its bark until its leaves parched and curled, its thin branches withered, and it died. What once had been a proud flourish of star-like, burgundy leaves was reduced to a low stump in a patch of dirt between his brick patio and wood fence.
My boyfriend had great reasons not to replace it—in particular, the old tree’s remains would be a pain to remove. But I was undeterred.
Here, I thought, was a very good gift.
