Shelley and I had a discussion recently on one of those late afternoons she dropped by with her kids in which she mentioned how much she liked sitting out in the lane but couldn't pin point why. I said it was the green. While our yards weren't taken care of very well, we still had beautiful plumeria trees, ti leaf, grass/weeds, ilima plants that grew wild and willy-nilly. We can see the sunset over Waikiki. We don't hear cars driving by, buses don't pump exhaust into our windows. Our neighbors are loud and friendly or quiet and friendly who love the kids and love Kapahulu.
And now our paradise has been violated with chainsaws and hoes. All the plumeria trees are gone, the hibiscus bush is gone, the other unnamed tree that was in front of our bedroom window is gone. We knew it was coming, we weren't sure of the exact date, but we didn't know it was going to be today. And when we turned into our driveway after a long, gorgeous day at the beach, we were stunned by the stark ugliness that had been left behind after the trees had all been massacred. They now lie in a horrific pile of chopped up pieces in the open yard across from our house as if the owners who ordered this hack job were taunting us or warning us.
We loved these trees. We mourn them. We have all shed tears over their imminent loss and now continue to accept their absence. Their torture. I'm glad we weren't here to see and hear it happen. I'm sure if we had been here, I would have had to chain Charlie down to prevent him from attacking every man out there with a heavy, blunt object. I am unable to talk about this, but am compelled to write it. I miss my tree, and I hate that the owners are going to cement everything. All this green gone. All the natural beauty, even in its sometimes non-beautiful state, gone! Our hearts have been ripped from our chests. Noah says with tears in his eyes, "I wouldn't pay them another cent!"
Our neighbors ventured outside just after we got home from the beach. We all looked at these gaping holes in our gardens and we struggled with the new holes in our lives. The lot of us, shaking our heads, staring at stumps, talking about shade and sunlight and water hoses when what's really on our minds is, "How can anyone do this to us? How could this have happened?" We feel helpless and powerless and heartbroken. I take solace in the collective mourning, and it's a tragedy the owners don't see what they're doing. Cement is easier to maintain and you don't have to worry about it falling on your roof in a hurricane. But it doesn't provide shade or oxygen or natural beauty, and it's not bringing any of us happiness. I cannot express to you the depth of our grief over the loss of this tree, our friend.
