The Sagging Orchid
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Cutting the pine
He looked downcast. “Show it to me.”
She grinned impishly, her brown eyes taking on a caramel-like glow. “Over here.” They walked some 200 feet farther away from the track, where a modest-sized pine stood between two larger ones.
“What do you think?” she beamed.
“It’s nice.”
“Should we tell them?”
“We can just get the hatchet.”
“Bonnie will like it, I hope,” she cautioned.
“She doesn’t fuss about it,” he waved off.
Clarisse stepped away, volunteering herself to fetch the blade. Taylor lingered beside the tree, wondering what the three others were up to. Five minutes, seemingly all day, dragged by. She returned with the hatchet, black blade looking harmless in the mist. She didn’t waste any time, just stepped to the pine’s left and gripped its handle. “We’ll take turns,” she said, “but I shouldn’t have any trouble.” She squared the hatchet with their tree and swung it back, as if in slow motion. The thump of first impact sounded, followed by thump, thump, thump, and a hollow whack. Splinters flew, a ridge grew wider in the trunk until a crackle blurted out and the pine fell.
“We’re going to miss having you here,” Taylor joked as they carried the tree back to their car, side by side. Clarisse flexed her thick lips into a grin, eluding the topic. “We might not have enough room for both of them,” she remarked.
