Thirty-one walks, thirty-one posts.
My husband and I took a right at the end of the driveway. "Just to the end of the block and back," I said, hands holding my sore belly. Always the pacesetter when we've walked before, this time he followed my lead.
The skies were blue and the temps were just a smidge on the warm side. We noticed one of the grand old oaks in a neighbor's yard that had been trimmed to half its height, bare thick trunks forming a natural sculpture of sorts, the cuttings still littering the yard.
"Maybe that's what we should do with our tree in the back." Our old mother oak is dying of oak wilt; I just hate the thought of the tree completely disappearing.
We reached the corner and turned around. The second house we came to was being painted by the neighbor from the third house. My husband knew him and said hello. After I was introduced, my husband asked if he was just doing the couple a favor by painting.
"Oh, the owner passed away in October," he said. "The wife is going to sell the house and move into assisted living. My partner and I offered to help get the house ready for the market."
After getting over the shock and discussing the circumstances, we said our goodbyes and headed back home, a bit more somber, the blue skies a bit less bright. The neighborhood is aging, both trees and people. The weight of that fact is an inescapable reality, whether we are paying attention or not.
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