The Dogwood

The kitchen was quiet. Except for the crackly hum of the refrigerator. And the intermittent drip from the faucet. How many times had she asked Art to fix that? That, and the table leg. It still wobbled. Sure, they all got used to it, like you get used to living on a rocking ship, but it was still something she had asked Art to fix maybe a hundred times. Every weekend for a while. She folded up a page torn from a magazine and shimmed it under. Then she forgot about it.

The cheerful green walls felt faraway and cool now. The clock was still slow. Another thing they just learned to live around. You adjusted. They could set it with the right time, but it was a lazy clock. It would lose time fast. It was careless with it.

Look through the yellow check curtains into the backyard. That dogwood tree was trying to squeeze out a blossom or two. Like someone squeezing out tears. They had planted that tree on Michael's first birthday. She could still see Art with a smile that was going to carry him away, up and over all the houses on Ballard Street. Art tore into the ground shoveling, getting carried away. How fast could someone shovel? Could you really shovel happily? She wouldn’t have thought so. But there he was. Couldn't wait to get Michael growing in the backyard, same as he was growing inside with them.

That tree hadn't grown an inch since they got the news about Michael. From that cop standing on the steps in the rain. His hat wrapped in plastic snapped over the top. Funny what you remember. The tree gave out. Same as Art. Art went away that night. Oh, he was still there in his corduroy chair every night for the news. He still took the car in every three thousand miles. But he was only waiting. Until he could leave too. Finally fall into whatever hole was waiting for him out there. People didn't believe her about the tree. Thought it was just psychological, what grief will do. But you could go out and measure. It hadn't budged since.