There is a tree across the way at the summer home. It’s a forlorn creature that looks as if all its hands have been cut off. But the wounds dried up long ago—but not in a healthy way, the round patches parched and no longer struggling. A few twigs dangle off the limbs, the sullen, brown leaves are tufts of mangy hair on the old man who rides his bicycle up and down the street all day. They do resemble each other, the old man and the tree. Perhaps it is the reason they pass each other, the man with his methodical pedaling and the tree with its slow, stooped hunch to arid death. The man would like to see a being like himself, lurking through time with him, watching the molasses hours with him. When the old man stops his visits I will be convinced the tree is dead.
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