Who has money for the chainsaw men?

Then there was that day the tree fell down over our driveway because of too much rain, this massive oak that laid right down when it had had enough. We took turns taking a photo in front of it, you with your arms thrust out and open and one leg crossed over the other like it was your own magic trick, me with hands thrust deep in pockets wearing my best daguerreotype face. Remember for me when you get the chance the way it rested on thick branches and towered above us even on the ground, how you remarked that it was bigger—and it was—than our little decades-old house. We wondered together about bugs and smiled and smiled.

It’s a rainy day at my apartment and I’m thinking about it. But I’m not allowed to call and tell you. It’s been so long since I’ve been allowed that I hardly feel things about it anymore. The gentlest of bummers.

Being trapped that way felt pretty good, the way we didn’t bother showering and stood in front of the pantry wondering what we could throw together for dinner. How we avoided television and electricity in general, just because it seemed uncouth, somehow. This was history, this was being alive. Count the rings and see.