Return of the Tombstone Trees

Last post, I scrivened on about one of my favorite places to take a midnight walk in Montreal: Westmount Park. There the trees are tombstones. It’s also a really nice park of winding paths.

Tonight, I had a pregnant skull full of heavy thoughts about a particular someone. I took a walk to clear my head. To the park. It was windy and a pseudo-spring that feels more like fall — the perfect sort of night for this kind of walk. I toured the park. It was good. I sat at a bench. I thought about the trees. I thought about pubs with funny names. I thought about what blues songs written in Enochian would sound like. I thought of nothing in particular.

Then I thought the heavy thoughts again.

I said to myself, “Self, you need to occupy your mind with something else for a little while.”

I looked over and noticed more of those trees, the ones with the metal plaques with names and dedications, the ones that turned the trees into weird tombstones — trees I hadn’t visited on my previous walks. For some reason, I find the dead names and words on the trees interesting, so I got up for a look and a diversion.

On the very first tree, the wind had twisted the chain of the plaque to face backwards. I turned it around. The first name, on the very first plaque, on the very first tree, was the name of the person stuck in my head.

I shit you not and hope to die.

Nevermore, Mother Hubbard!