Red Room Where the Writers Are

How quickly everything changes and appears differently with the felling of a tree.  There was a bit of chaos ahead of me on the road into town this morning.  From quite a distance I could see some lights flashing, cars held up.  I slowed down. Two men in ragged woolen hats and wellington boots were trying to do a makeshift traffic light control situation. I was astounded to see that the old cypress tree in Coleys front garden was being chopped down, castrated, felled.  Killed. I don't understand it. The tree was far far away from his small cottage. It was no danger to anyone as far as I could tell. As I drove slowly by I looked to Coley for some kind of acknowledgement but I did not receive any from him.  Not the usual wave, nothing. I felt let down. He appeared animated, caught up in the fervour of the felling and he looked younger for some reason and I wondered if I had gotten his years all wrong. And then I thought about Mary, his sister, dead now for oh, maybe, six years. I loved Mary. When we first moved to Boleybeg she was the person who confirmed the move to this place. For she spoke of mother earth itself.  Somedays as I drove out from town I often saw her out in one of the handkerchief-sized fields that make up this place, ploughing on over the reedy grass with her head down and a big stick in one of her hands. There were the days when I met her pushing her bicycle over the road, belting the cows ahead of her, and I'd stop and share a moment with her when my boys were young and all tucked into the back seat of my small citroen. They were afraid of Mary, they called her the witch, her face scary holding many rivers. She told me over the course of a few years that is and  in snippets, that she had lived in America but when her father died had come back to manage the farm with her brother Coley. One Spring she graced the house with yellow appearing on her old bicycle with a huge bunch of daffodils. Coley developed a bad hip and for years was unable to walk at all. Mary had to do everything. And yes, I often saw him Coley, looking like a mannequin out of a store front window. Frozen. Sitting in the tractor. Frozen. Holding bales of straw. Frozen. Standing in their yard. Frozen. Frozen for years. Then one day before Mary died I looked out  and I saw her on the road. There was a massive yellow volvo dumpster truck behind her and it looked like it was going to suck her up into its bowels. I did not know she died until months later at a dinner party and Mary came up. I was distraught. I know I had not seen her but sometimes she took off to Lourdes where she promised to pray for me. I never saw Mary again. I never got to say goodbye. Coley was all animated today about the felling of the tree. It seemed to bring new life to his world. All I could see was a dead stump of a thing,perhaps a sign of the times and even though  I don't know anything about trees and tell me I'm wrong but I doubt if there will ever be a bit of green on that miserable excuse for a tree again.