Facing mortality in a Toronto garden
The tree pruning team arrives after breakfast. Their leader, Adam, scopes out the day’s work. I’ve lost my interest since Sonia’s call. I breathe deeply as I follow Adam into the garden, hoping the earth will soothe me. Mom must miss this the most. Now she breathes the recirculated smell of bland food, adult diapers, and cleaning supplies. All I can do is hope the dementia has made her forget what she’s missing.
“If a third of the branches are dead, it’s a good sign it’s in decline,” Adam says. Wow, at least a third of my heart has been dead in the past, and I’ve come back. “Don’t be extreme,” I tell him. “Unfortunately, it’s been years. Trees have a life span, too.” I suppose. Trees, dogs, mothers. As he tilts his unshaven face upward toward two enormous oaks, his diamond earrings refract the sunlight into a colorful prism. The unbreakable gemstones, formed deep within the earth’s mantle, suit him.
The oaks dominate the area above the pagoda. They are the garden’s heart. Adam circles the trees, still looking up, his hands on his hips, his eyes squinting. “Looks like this one has some residents,” he says.
It’s the tree I see from the bedroom window. I follow his gaze up about thirty feet to a large black hole in the trunk, about a foot across and two feet high.
Another hole, smaller, rests about fifteen feet higher. “Raccoons, I bet,” he says. “Huh?” “Raccoons love hollow trees. Have you seen some around?” “Nope.” So that’s where they went. It’s a two-story raccoon condo with an excellent view. I circle the tree to find more holes on the other side. They have panoramic vistas of the entire yard. If I had to design their home, I couldn’t have done it better.
“You’ve got to bring it down,” he says.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. This tree stays, scissorhands.
“Those top branches have to come down, at least,” he says. “They’ll fall this way, right into those staghorns.”
Staghorns? I look left and up into the forest. A leafy green canopy looks as if someone installed several giant garden umbrellas.
My pulse quickens. Staghorn sumacs! The velvety branches look like antlers. My fingers itch to touch them. I can’t believe it. The possibilities. Native tea. Spice. Home decor. Peace pipes.
“I bet the raccoons feast on those berries during the fall,” he says. “You may want to get a trapper to move them right out of here.”
I nod at him. What’s he mumbling? We have sumacs!
“Can you cut some of those berries down for me?” I ask.
Excerpted from Unearthed by Alexandra Risen. Copyright © 2016 Alexandra Risen. Published by Viking Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.