A hole had opened in wet ground.
Next to it were remains. Broken limbs
and branches strewn all over the street.
Wild and wondrous the ficus lay prone
like a new-grown forest. Torn roots exposed
unceremoniously lifted from the earth.
Her severed trunk massive like the leg of a mastadon.
A yellow caution tape surrounded her.
In the cool night air I drove near, as close
as I dared alongside the orange safety cones,
then parked my car with my driver’s window
down, wanting to share some final words
before she was broken into sections and carted away.
Her tangled leaves still living, still luxuriant. Perhaps
tomorrow she would be gone. It had been raining
the night before. What the rain has taken, I thought. Maybe
it wasn’t rain but pollution or the California draught. Some
unforeseen reason for her fate. The ficus
seemed so alive, full and abundant. Even glorious.
Her green canopy a celebration. How could it be, I thought.
Where the ficus fell there was now a surprising
lightness, a gap in the air that she once filled with presence,
with the voice of seasons. She was the music
of a small, residential street. The biggest, greenest tree.
Every day, I walked by her not thinking or thanking her
just breathing in the green greeting of morning she declared
Or sometimes, evening. A lesson I should not forget:
always thank each tree I see. Where the ficus fell
I stopped even though I was running late and met
three neighbors. How could it be, they repeated.
Perhaps the change to artificial turf had been too much
or fungus like on the trees down the street.
One neighbor took photos of the scene
One climbed among the branches wondering out loud
if there could be a person caught underneath.
We really couldn’t see.
Somehow the ficus fell without hitting any parked car and most likely
without hurting a person or other living being
It was good fortune we all agreed.
One neighbor had called the City. Later when the city worker arrived
he said it was her time. The ficus had no living roots. He pointed
out her dry wood to me. I thought of my stepmother
who looked so good even when she couldn’t breathe. You just never know
We cannot tell what goes on inside. Yet, how could this happen I asked.
Such a magnificent canopy. So alive. One neighbor
wondered if the tree could be put back. Hoisted up and placed
again inside the hole. I knew this could not be done. The ficus
had already died, even though part of her for a time survived.
I took some branches home thinking to place them in a vase
remembering how I took a whisker from my cat Billy when he died.
I asked the city worker if I could replant them. He shook his head
The way we try to keep what can’t be kept. You could try the orange pods
he said. They were scattered all over the street. I took ten.
I do healing energy, I told one neighbor and aimed at the gaping
hole, patted the tree trunk once again and whispered, as if to the spirit
of the ficus, “Thank you for your being here. You brought a song
of blessing to the street and gave a home to squirrels and birds
I will keep you and the mystery of songbirds hidden in your leaves”
How I would stop at night and listen to them calling. O ficus, I cried,
where you fell, I still am falling.
Environmental Film and Screenplay Festival 