I once saw the entirety of my own tragedy pass, in a single moment, through the eyes of an old man. It was at my going away shindig. Our going away shindig–my housemate Scarlett’s and mine. She was leaving to pursue her PhD at my own old stomping grounds in San Diego. And I would travel to Oregon to attempt a second bachelor’s degree in an entirely new subject. So we would leave behind the Lorrain Street house, a slightly derelict semblance of a modest mansion in old Austin, Texas.

You lived at 357 Woodruff Avenue for over fifty years, growing up in your tree-like way, as I did in my human one. I had turned eight when I first saw you, gracing the northeast corner of our backyard, standing tall in front of the wall which divided our large backyard in two. Behind this wall there were fruit trees that gifted us with apricots, oranges, and plums in the summer.  You were a maple, so we didn’t get to eat the fruit or seeds you produced, but your many gifts to our family were just as welcomed.

When I meet her, she’s leaving. An hourglass flips the second we make eye contact. This is the first reading she’s ever attended. I don’t know this yet. She looks at home leaning against the stacks in that Park Slope bookstore, wearing those almost-overalls with her arms loosely crossed. Her nails are short, their black polish chipping. She stands alone, which I like.

“I’m a tax preparer now,” I said, somewhat sheepishly. Being a tax preparer isn’t exactly what anyone dreams of when considering professions, and I am probably more surprised than anyone else that those words consistently come out of my mouth now.

In a recurring nightmare, someone unwelcome, uninvited, and dangerous tries to break into my home. It is always daytime, a shining, exposing sun more sinister than the privacy of darkness. I lock the front door, then slide across the tile floor of the family room in socked feet to lock the back door.