The broken-hearted tree

It reached and it grew 
and it reached and it grew
and it carried so much
that it broke in two.

My Tree has a broken heart. 

I noticed something was wrong today as Nelson and I approached it from the south. Its boughs are usually heavy in the summer, but they never touch the sandy ground beneath. In the winter its skeletal frame reaches up towards the sky, and one bough in particular hangs down towards the earth, offering itself like a proffered arm of support against the blustery beach winds. In summer, I snuggle my shoulder up underneath the same bough, as it hangs lower, and give it a moment or two of support in return. But today, it was reaching all the way towards the ground. 

It took my brain a moment to register what my eyes were seeing: something was very wrong with my tree. 

I followed its limbs up towards the trunk, and there it was, a raw, ragged, fresh-looking gash right between where the two trunks of the tree grew apart. I stayed with the tree a while, crying for its brokenness, hoping that this rift is just another bend in its growth, and not a harbinger of the chainsaw. 

My heart breaks for my tree. My heart breaks for me. For us. For everyone who holds up their arms towards the sky, heavy with their burdens, until we, too crack, and tumble, and fall.