April 23, 2008
Youíre going to lose her. Itís going to be a Tuesday, and youíre going to be arguing with the neighbor over his uncut lawn. This, you feel, is worthy of your strife; Peterson cut down your birch last spring, despite only 63% of it hovering on his property. You loved that birch. You planted it after your firstborn, and the placenta had nourished it from its sapling roots. The birch blossomed with the each passing season, while your child, inversely, was whisked from appointment to appointment, given trashcan diagnoses; withering, despite the food and love and sunlight lavished upon her.