Gone.
They had stood there for decades—thick trunks, tall branches, leaning just slightly toward the sunlight the way trees do when they’re constantly growing toward the light. My father planted three of them when I was eight years old. The other three were added years later, but together they formed a solid green wall that shielded my house from the ridge above—from the view of the houses that had been built up there five years ago, perched like they were surveying the valley below like it belonged to them.
Now there were six fresh stumps lined up in the dirt.
Perfectly flat cuts. Clean. Professional. The branches had already been hauled away. Even the sawdust had mostly been cleared, as if someone had tried to tidy up the crime scene before leaving. As if someone had understood, at some level, that what they’d done required cleanup.
