An olive tree has been cut up to be removed. The pieces of the branches are still in place, the tree still standing, held together by it’s own weight. This happened only recently — the last day or two. It’s on the sidewalk outside where my friends live, just a block away from my home.
These same friends (P, S, M) have temporarily moved to Oakland. I consider whether I’ll be the one who should tell them about this tree, but this question is never resolved. For the moment, they’re living in the same place Lynae and I lived, when we also had to move for a bit. The building is a squat little one-story place, not unpleasant, with a scruffy lawn out front and a dim interior. Just down the sidewalk a ways is a half-barrel planter we brought there. The tree we had in it has shriveled and died in the exposed and neglected street. I find it hard to remember what I did when I lived there — I didn’t really explore the neighborhood. This has some psychological similarities to when I lived in Mexico, and the difficulties there.
I have an odd thought. It never really occurred to me, when they were expecting their baby, that my blonde friends would have a blonde kid. Like, I’m literally not expecting her to look like anything in particular. Bit silly, but curious.
Later I’m in Palm Springs with their little blonde kid, M. Together we’re standing at the base of Mt. San Jacinto, closest to where you can still see the very top of the mountain — it’s an odd vertigo to stare almost straight up and be looking at earth, two miles up. (When I wake up I have an idea for a map showing the gradients of highest elevation difference once can see from any spot on the ground surrounding the mountain.)
This turns out to be an abnormal day. Something’s gone wrong on the mountain and the snow is very far down, almost to the valley floor. There’s an evacuation or maybe the ski lift breaks. Skiers en masse start pouring off the mountain and piling into the parking lot where we stand. I back away with the kid at my front, trying to maneuver her onto my shoulders. A few skiers see this and remark, “like Grandpa”, as somehow this seems a very grand-paternal to them.
I would find out at the end of today, that my friend’s mom (the little girl’s grandma) passed away.