Kind of Tragic

Has a nuclear plant blown up in Japan? asked Pliny.

Not that I know of, I replied.

Has Colonel Gaddafi killed more of his people.....?

No, no, Pliny, it's not that kind of tragic. No need to look pale. It's the pittosporum tree in the back garden. It's got a disease, and we're going to have it cut down. I know you'll be sad.

Will I? said Pliny, surprised. I don't think so. I always thought that tree was too close to the fence.

But you loved that tree Pliny. Remember when we first got it. It was in a pot. My mother bought it for my daughter so she would see something green from her bedroom window instead of the fence.

No, I don't remember, said Pliny. When was this?

Eleven years ago, Pliny. Then my daughter changed bedrooms and decided to plant the tree in the garden.

And it grew, said Pliny. As trees do.

Yes, and when my daughter was away overseas I used to write to her saying the tree is now as tall as your brother.

How sweet, said Pliny.

And it grew and grew. Soon I was writing that it was as big as two brothers.

One on top of the other? asked Pliny.

Yes, then it thickened and grew to become as dense and as tall as five brothers.

Five brothers, said Pliny. I thought she only had two.

Once, I said, gazing into the distance, I sent her a little blood red flower from the tree, stuck to the writing paper with clear sticky tape. It was probably illegal, I added.

No doubt, said Pliny. Well I can see you are sorry to lose this five-brother-blood-red-flowering tree. I am prepared to acknowledge the tragic nature of its demise. When is it to be?

Tomorrow morning, I said mournfully.

I shall write you a poem, said Pliny.