The old man that mourned alone...

When they were young lovers they had carved their initials on the bark of the tallest Banyan tree in the garden. He remembered how nervous they were and, fearing guards or curious eyes, how they had giggled and waited under the spreading branches of their chosen tree for the path to empty. After encircling their initials with a shaky heart, he had tried to kiss her but in his excitement grasped her hand too tightly and she had pulled away laughing softly.

It was such a long time ago and they had both forgotten about it until the day he saw that huge landmark of their love surrounded by uniformed men holding menacing machines with names he could not pronounce.

Ah, no. They would not cut it down. It was much to large, and the park was filled with people. Why would they anyway? The park was built around these old trees whose cool shade was the reason he had taken lunch there every day for the past fifteen years.

It took the men three days to saw the tree all the way down to the last two feet of trunk. They piled branches and massive logs into green trucks and drove away, carting with them the first pronouncement of nervous young lovers. Yellow police tape encircled the two meters of stump, reminding him of the scene of a terrible accident he'd once passed on his way home from work. The green trucks would soon come back to uproot the last of the tree, like a bad tooth it would be pulled from the earth.

Two days after the incident the old man came back to the park, his arms full of white lilies. At the foot of what used to be the tallest Banyan tree in the garden he laid out the bouquets, a sullen protest or a funeral of sorts, while young lovers hid behind other trees and giggled.


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