A broken tree

The tree out back broke recently. Cracked right down the middle, like it got hit by lightning. But it didn’t. It simply cracked because it’s brittle. A highbred variety prone to being too stiff to withstand high winds. The day before I had just been admiring how tall it had gotten. My Dad planted it the summer before our neighbor, Mrs. Hanninen, died from cancer. I had laid my hand right on the spot where the tree would splinter apart. I looked up into the leaves as my Mom shucked corn from our garden. The sun played across our faces, and my Mom picked bugs off the cobs as we talked about nothing in particular. She was the one who remembered when the tree got planted. She and Mrs. Hanninen would talk across the fence as they hung laundry on the clothes line. I don’t know what they chatted about, I was too busy chasing bugs and running through the tunnels of drying clothes, leaving dirty hand print streaks on the clean sheets.
The crosshatching lines across the trunk reminded me of my hands, which are pretty lined for someone so young (I’m 24). Trees’ bark is a lot like human skin—they get stretch marks too. The tree had grown so fast its bark had split in places, like a tomato can rip open because the skin can’t keep up with how quickly its insides are expanding. The little tears had already scabbed over; new bark was stretching across the cracks, and would, in time, give the tree more character. Now, I’m just hoping it will make it through the coming winter. My Dad said he’s just going to let it be and see how it fares. If it survives, the tree will be stronger for its ordeal, and if it dies, we’ll cut it down and use it for firewood. I’m hoping for the former outcome though: I’d like to sit underneath that tree someday with my kids and trace the years on my hands as we talk about nothing in particular on a summer day as the tomatoes on the vine burst their skins.