Maple’s what we call the oak tree in front of the house.
It was Dad who decided to call an oak tree Maple.
There’s another one—a birch he named Sweet Pine.
And out past the garage is a crab apple tree.
He wanted to call it Peaches but I said Nah, Daddy.
Let’s just call that one Crabby.
And in winter, when Crabby’s branches are getting beat
down by a cold wind,
I wonder if she’s upset no one
covered her up with a tree blanket.
It was me who decided Crabby and Maple and Sweet Pine were girls.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because of that book we used to read you,
my daddy said.
The one about the tree that keeps giving up
everything she has.
But I shook my head. I’d never want a tree to do that.
I’d never ask that of anything. Or anybody.
Daddy has to stop playing football until the doctors know
what’s going on with his head.
Some days he seems just like that tree.
Like he’s not his whole self anymore. Like one by one
somebody or something
took his branches.