Sometimes there's a tree who we know as a friend. The affection we feel might be about light or texture or shade. It could be about spirit or sanctuary. The tree might be a majestic old friend or a young wayward one. Maybe our celebration of a tree nourishes the tree as well as ourselves.
Every time I move house I meet new trees. This year I've got to know an enormous white fig. I often meet it as I walk. On winter mornings it stands with its roots snaking out in the sun after the hard night. I'd feel rude if I didn't greet it. Then there's a little grove of young casuarinas, leaning together with their dewdrop jewellery sparkling.
What do we do when a friend who is a tree dies? An old mango tree that had given its shade and fruit for a long time was killed a few weeks ago. I saw the innocent yellow inside it where the trunk had been cut. Whoever killed it had not understood the friendship it offered. The once-enchanted garden will be ordinary now and the house will be hot in summer, and there'll be no more fruit. And there was a frangipani tree with a little wild garden beneath where blue wrens would nest. It was killed and all traces of the garden were scraped away. That tiny corner of the world is now ugly, and the wrens are nowhere to be seen.
These are small things but we feel them, because it's possible to have a friendship with a tree. What do we do when they die? Mourn and regret and rage. Try and understand this world and the way it takes life away and brings more life and takes it away again.