Adelaide B. Shaw
They are still there, the plane trees. The pride of the estate. Brought with us from Europe. Father's dream, twenty of them, to line the driveway. Townspeople came to witness their arrival, their introduction into this foreign soil. Such strange and unusual trees. Never thrive the nay sayers voiced. Transplant shock, they said, will kill them. Perhaps, they mean us we thought, as well as the trees.
They are stumpy at first, but healthy and robust, growing taller and fuller each year. In the spring, globes of leaves at the end of each branch, pushing upward and out, growing a full crown giving shade. In autumn, after leaves fall, wirey stems stark against the sky until pruned back to the knobby fists common to see in winter.
We are still here, too, but not with the trees. We are disbursed, indistinguishable from those native to the land, no longer the foreigners who came with their strange and unusual ways. The trees are different. They are rooted along the driveway, a part of the town, but they remain strange and unusual.