Exposed

They cut the trees. Or, maybe I should say: They trimmed the trees for they only cut some secondary branches. Some branches, still heavy with greens, were spared. They did it in mid-summer. Some shades had receded. Some shades had even disappeared exposing the benches which, long time ago, were part of some trees, too. Poor benches, I thought, for they could hide no longer from the million sharp gazes of the mid-summer sun. Poor benches, I thought, because for some time they’d be missing the sweet whispers of the so-called lovers in the shade. Well, they could just wait for the moon’s shift. Poor benches, I thought, because they’d be ignored and left alone, for some time, by people they had used to provide a lap for, to rest. Poor, useless benches! And the squirrels, too: what would protect them from preys?

I don’t see the point of doing that. I thought a storm was coming because some hours before I had discovered the trimming of the trees, I watched on TV an anchor, reporting in Chinese, superimposed on worrisome images of rain and wind-battered trees. I thought it was breaking news. Or, was that warning? I didn’t listen. I only watched. My experience with Chaplin didn’t help me confidently figure out what those images conveyed. So, I interpreted those scenes as a malady. And, of course, I could be wrong.

I was wrong. There was no storm. It’s been three days now since the trimming spree. But now, I think, the branches will not regenerate before my eyes. Even if the storm will come in a month’s time the trees will not grow back its fallen parts.

Meanwhile, summer will stay for a while as the fallen branches rot somewhere.

{July 15, 2009}