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TREE EVERLASTING
Climbing Trees At 43
It was my wife’s idea
Mindy and I sat on the front steps in the beauty of a cool evening, and out of nowhere, surprising both of us, I was talking about death.
When nature’s getting all poetic with its blues, greens, and breezes, it drives the Maine out of me.
Beauty and comfort make a Mainer say, “Yeah, but don’t forget winter and death.”
I didn’t say, “Hey, Mindy, let’s talk for fifteen minutes about dying and being dead.” I just launched in, no preface, the way a fine writer would: in medias res, which is Latin for, “You figure out why I’m talking about this, you bastards. Good luck.”
Anyway, death.
I’m a guy who has always believed in an afterlife. But in recent years, that belief has been taking a beating.
You know those commercials where two paper towel brands fight to get into your life? Paper towel scientists dump blue liquid (antifreeze?) onto paper towels. One towel strip endures the blue dump like a champ, while the other one loses its shit and kills an offscreen baby.
When I was a child, my strip of afterlife faith was strong. When a blue dump of death hit that faith, the faith gobbled it up wonderfully with its strong, absorbent, lint-free thickness.
