My Name is Apollo
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My name is Apollo. I am a canary island pine tree in Brookhollow Business Park in Santa Ana, California. I am your greeter and the first tree you observe when you visit me from the north entrance. I stand alongside the management’s office so I always try to look confident.
No matter your mood I am always cheerful and reflect the brightest glow of my long green needles to make you feel welcome.
I was given my Greek name because it means strength or Father of Light. I don’t mean to brag, but I have this talent to convert energy from sunlight called photosynthesis. I transform carbon dioxide into oxygen and “exhale” it for humans and animals to breathe.
I was planted here forty years ago when the park was young. This is Margaret next to me. I remember when she was planted shortly after me. We always joked that if the arborists did not straighten her she would end up permanently standing with an awkward slant. The arborist never returned, so I affectionately call her Leaning Pisa.
I have stood here 40 years. I have slept here 40 years. I can share so many memories with you. There is one company in the park that honors our mothers every year by marching around the pond with black and white umbrellas. I always try to look my best when they take photographs.
Every Sunday a nearby church holds a big picnic beside me and Margaret. The smoke from the BBQ chicken flutters high in our branches. The congregation always laughs and has a good time while Margaret and I shade them from the hot sun. The same little boy always comes close to me in search of lizards or interesting bugs by my trunk. One time he gave Margaret a hug. Her needles beamed.
Last Saturday morning I heard a familiar sound of a large truck. It was HappyGreen Tree Trimming Service. It had been years since my branches had been pruned and my canopy had become huge. Perhaps the management didn’t like me dropping pine cones on the roof.
Rather than the normal two or three workers there were eight men who got out of the truck. I have gotten quite tall and I supposed it now took the expertise of several people to trim me. As the large crane escalated into the sky I noticed all the workers staring at me silently.
I heard the familiar hum of the chainsaw. A large branch crashed onto the ground. Then another branch tumbled. Another man pointed at a limb and soon it was also being sawed. They kept cutting me.
It was Saturday morning when no one else was at the park. No one was there to protest my destruction. Margaret’s needles darkened from anxiety. Hummingbirds buzzed frantically, knowing that danger was near and their babies nest might be destroyed.
Another major arm fell. “What did I do wrong?” I wondered. For forty years I have proudly done my job, which is to stand and be beautiful. I gave shade to the mother duck and her ducklings who marched pass me in a military style single file every day.
Crash. Another limb fell.
Although I never felt pain I still asked, Why me? I would never wish misfortune to any friend but Margaret was the one who leaned. I stood perfectly tall and straight. I was careful that my root system was never invasive and never harmed the management building. In forty years I never caused a single crack in the sidewalk.
“Stand back!” another worker yelled as another one of my arms jolted the pavement.
With all of my being I summoned the rest of my branches to search for clues. If I was going to be killed I wanted to know the reason. Using my needles like one million eyes a group of them spotted a sign in the window of an adjacent suite of the building. It read, “For Lease” with a telephone number.
“Search, seek, and find” was my final command to the rest of my extremities. It didn’t make sense to destroy a living vessel that produces hundreds of pounds of oxygen for humans to breathe.
Another set of my needles noticed strange hieroglyphics scribbled in white paint on the backside of my trunk. I can’t read, but I took a mental photo of the image- ‘Marked for Removal #23.” With my underground communication system I now understand what happened to my friends Jasmine, Pax, Zella, Astoria, Dorian, and Stacia. They were cut into pieces last week.
An answer from the heavens appeared in the voices of the workers. One pointed towards me and said, “That’s where the big sign will go.”
“What sign?” the other worker asked.
“Didn’t you hear? Another church will be moving here. The management of the park said they would remove the tree and allow them to erect a sign if they agreed to lease their suite for five years.”
By the evening I was divided into dozens of huge wooden sections that kissed the earth. The normal swath of shade was now hot sunlight that scorched the pavement. My last remains was my huge stump, which displayed forty perfect rings for each year of my life.
By the morning even my stump was removed and covered with mulch and decorative rocks to hide the evidence I was ever there. I’m sure the neighbors will notice I disappeared when they return to work Monday morning. I will sure miss that little boy on Sundays.
I suppose nothing really dies, but rather we are simply transformed to another realm. If you ever come to my park to visit Margaret, please tell her I said hello. If you feel a calming breeze of cool wind- please think of me.
My name is Apollo.
