Entries by Nancy Tierney

Baby Maple

Last night, a murder took place in my back yard.

Someone, I believe it was Robert, murdered my baby Japanese Maple tree. He crept into my yard and cut its throat in a clean diagonal line and left its leafy head where it hit the ground. When I went out onto my back deck to feed the squirrels this morning, it was the first thing I saw. The feathery tangle of maroon leaves no longer held high but in the dirt. I ran over to it, saying, “Oh, no. Oh, no,” hoping the tree was merely bent, that the squirrels had been overly playful and it had caught on something.


Just when I thought I’d forgotten how, when I was sure the flicker and spark had turned to a thin line of vapor, and too much regret had emptied me of the inclination, I spent the last 10 minutes flirting like a pro. It wasn’t hard. I didn’t even have to think about it. I wasn’t even trying. I just looked into his eyes and smiled, and the rest rose up in me like bubbles in champagne. So sweet. So familiar. So missed, this giddiness. This sly delight. This resurrection.