The tree in my front yard is dying. It was once a good tree; beautiful with climbing ivy and thick shady boughs. Every year when spring came it bloomed little white petals, joining the local dogwood understory, that lines the concrete paths of our urban dungeon.

Every year it gave me comfort to see it regain its vitality.

This year was different. The previous winter was too long and too cold, and half of its limbs had died. Its leaves were spotty, and it could no longer provide the abundant shade that it once had.

The tree was still alive, though was not healthy. By pruning its dead parts, it could have perhaps survived. But this winter has been so cold, and neglect may have finally taken its toll.

If the leaves do not return, and its vibrant aura vanishes forever, its remains will need to be cut down to a lonely barren stump. No need to leave a dead caricature of something living, only to remind me of what used to be.