Can't See the Forest For the Trees

I've always noticed that the last maple in my front yard branches into opposite directions, that it has a perfect tree hole above its fork, the kind that squirrels love in real life, not only in children's stories.  One of the elements that drew me to this house four years ago was the front yard shade, the dense leaves that let in just enough sunlight to allow a downy film of grass that only needs mowing for the sake of weed control, and of course, the two parallel branches that arc in the perfect curve with the strength to support the swing we hung for the first time this summer.

Until a month ago, I didn't notice that this last remaining mature tree in our front yard was crumbling from its core. From the vantage of our neighbor's yard, it was clear that it this tree was close to collapsing over our office or her garage in the next heavy windstorm.

There were certainly signs of maturity, from its mossy lichen patches to its slowly shedding bark, but I didn't see the forest for the trees when I missed the pockets of decay in the branch over the swing, the split trunk that signaled a new danger over storybook charm. Last week, a tree service removed the limbs extending over the roof while my son and his cousins gaped out the living room window as they "crushed the tree," as my son enthusiastically recounted to me when I arrived home in the aftermath. For now, the rest of the tree isn't a pressing danger. We plan to let it stand until next summer on the distant hope that it will have some time to recover. In reality, we're just giving ourselves another year to face the inevitability of its loss.