Why would they up and quit now?

I lost two of them today.

My garden is filled with trees, southern varieties whose names I mostly don’t know – except the crape myrtle trees with their bright pink flowers. My cats like to shimmy and claw their way up, then fling down a cascade of tiny branches.

They even have a gloating cat’s meow. “Look at me! I groomed a tree!”

I don’t come unglued at the sight of trees. When Mad Magazine published a parody of a well-known dendrophilic verse – “I think that I shall never hear / A poem lovelier than beer” – I didn’t think it was sacrilege.

Neither did my mom, a native New Yorker who used to laugh and roar with an upraised fist: “I hate nature! Give me pavements and perverts!”

But now I live in a lovely arbor, and I’m infuriated by the sight of two palm trees withering. They were old and gray and fragile, but the human plague seems to be dying down. Why would they up and quit now?

I am left with desiccated fronds and rancor in my heart.