panegyric for an oak

Planted
by a forgetful squirrel
before the house changed hands in 2001,
the acorn
from across the street
grew into a small tree between the two houses. Although trimmed repeatedly
(by yours truly) over the ensuant years, the tree continued to grow, eventually attaining a height which would have required the use of a ladder to keep its boughs in check.
Notice that use of the phrase "would have".
The tree, no longer beset by pruning tools, flourished.
Oddly, no birds claimed it as home. Ever.
The mockingbirds preferred the shelter of the nearby azaleas, cloaked by blackberry brambles and thorny vines.
The neighbor in the house on the other side of the tree began complaining about two years ago. He claimed the upper branches were having a deleterious effect on his roof. I reminded him that I would have been able to afford to have the tree trimmed when he had the tree cutters eliminating the pines in his back yard, about five years earlier. He did not recall.
Every few months, a card from a tree surgeon would be left on my door.
Time passed.
The tree continued to loft its weighty limbs into the air, reaching its fingertips toward the sun, the moon, the stars. Its leaves caught each passing breeze, rustling and singing.
Its roots continued to spread, taking shelter under the houses of myself and my neighbor. Eventually, that would be a serious problem, I knew. The roots of an oak reach out as far as do its limbs. The overlap of the branches atop the two roofs were evidence of the roots' encroachment upon those foundations.
Action would eventually be necessary. I knew that, but kept granting clemency to the oak.
After two of my neighbors called the city about my back yard, I decided it was time for action against the tree.
Time for the mighty oak to be felled.
"Mighty" was hardly the correct description. The tree was still so young! It should have had a couple of hundred years of time ahead of it.
Instead, the tree surgeon of my choice was called, a man recommended by my dear artist friend.
On the afternoon of Tuesday, July 15, 2014, Ervin came. After we agreed on the cost of ending the tree's life, work began.
Immediately.
I may have expected more time for me to accept the concept of killing the oak. At least I was aware that this was most likely the only time I would deliberately have a living tree destroyed.
I documented the act with photographs.
The tree surgeon was surprised, but did not discourage me.
He has a deep respect for these trees he fells.
I like to think he knew I had a deep respect for this oak.
I like to think I did, too.
I miss the sight and the sounds of it.
I don't think I realized what a loss I would feel.
I certainly did not realize what impact that loss would have on me.
Now, every morning, I am reminded that the oak is gone. The rising sunbeams, no longer blocked, beat against my bedroom window, seeking admittance, bidding me awaken at a ridiculously early time.
Now, all day long, the sun sends its heated rays toward that window, increasing the temperature in my already hot, un-air-conditioned, little house.
Now, every day, I am reminded of my death sentence on the oak.
Sigh.
Loss adjustment is still ongoing.
Perhaps, as the days cool and the nights lengthen, I will welcome the additional sunlight.
For now, the loss is still fresh and I am daily reminded: I had a living tree destroyed.
I don't know if Joyce Kilmer would have approved, but I have to believe he would have understood.
And none of that logic makes it any less sad.