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flashflashflashA FarewellI don't trust whoever gets my childhood home next not to ruin it. My parents cut down a tree in the front yard today and it feels like a part of me was lopped off. It was sickly, they said. Bark peeling off for years, flesh laid bare in the West Texas sun. But it was the tree in front of my childhood bedroom. Its branches used to tap on my window. It shielded me from the harsh glare of the street lamp. It needed to go, my dad said. And we all sat on the back porch, dogs laying out in the grass, and I pondered the fate of the other tall, friendly oak trees stretching up into the sky. My parents moved into this house just before I was born. Twenty four years I've lived here, spare a few spent out east. They've been talking about moving for the last six. And the next family won't know. They won't know that the long, straight branch in the backyard used to have my swing tied to it until one day the rope broke and I scraped my knees. They won't know that the stains in the garage are from a sloppy DIY hydro-dipping attempt my dad and I put on one day when my mom wasn't home. They won't see the splotchy shapes of imaginary horses and dinosaurs hidden in the orange peel walls. They won't know which shelves are for pictures and which are for books. They won't know that you have to turn the ceiling fan knob all the way to the right, and then back one click, otherwise it shorts out. They won't know how the second bedroom used to be the nursery, decorated with hand-painted caterpillars and ladybugs and butterflies that you can still see the faint outlines of through the three coats of neutral grey that have been slathered on since. Ah, well. I'm sure they'll figure it all out.