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"That tree needs care, young'un. Prune it now, or it'll only be harder next year," Grandma Willa said.

Actually, this is what she said: "That tree needs cayuh young'n. Prun'it nah oh it lonely be hahdah nex yeah."

"Ok, Grandma," I said. She always makes me smile. Something about the way her voice makes words. It hits me in a strange place in the stomach and feels like golden butterflies. Maybe it's just what it sounds like when you are hearing someone's real voice.

Grandma is always real with us. She has to be. No time for anything else. She almost died the day of the blast and somehow she learned the exact day and hour of her death. She won't tell anybody, but I think it's soon. She's seems more driven lately. Even more than usual, which is saying something.

The shed is in great shape today, just like I left it. The steel door groans a bit in the morning damp as I open it. God I love that smell. Cut grass, stray earth, and fresh moonlight. I grab my pole-saw and pruning belt. My climbing harness can take the day off, this maple is a doll.

I learned a lot about trees from Dale. He's dead now. I learned even more about trees from trees. I know it sounds weird but they have personalities. Some trees are assholes. Russian Olive. That she-devil will stab you soon as shade you. Cottonwoods aren't as bad, and they sure are beautiful in summer. Heaven help you if one ever catches fire, though. Never encountered anything else that smells like that... almost like human flesh burning.

Ash. Now there's a nice middle-of-the-road tree. Firm, but willing to work with you when a limb needs breaking. Accessible to climb, and it always feels pleasant being up in an ash, not sure what that's about but it's the truth. I feel like I know a lot of people who are ashes too. Same description, just with people instead of trees. Perfectly nice people, perfectly nice trees, but it feels like something is missing. A spark of some kind.

Then you have a tree like my doll, Maple. She is just the sweetest. Maple is the one that taught me what a tree's consciousness can feel like. There's a sweetness to her, a gentleness. She's kind, upright, and she wants what's best for you. If I had a mother, I imagine she would have been like Maple.

Pruning Maple is a cinch. She's so easy. It feels like she wants to be pruned. Like she knows I'm here to take care of her, keep her looking beautiful and healthy. I'm done in less than an hour, just as the sun is hitting that eight o'clock angle where everything is golden dew and magic mist.

My tools put away, I close the shed door to have Lennie promptly scare me to death.

Literally.

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