Pruned

"What about these mugos?" I gestured to one of the pines framing our front stairs. Well, blocking the stairs, actually. Any time visitors come to the front door, they have to practically vault over the greenery.

"That's not mugo," the arborist said. "It's dwarf scotch. Softer needles."

I nodded and cast a glance at my husband. This was the third plant we'd misidentified so far.

"Look at the size of that trunk. That pine is forty years old at least." He studied it, scratching his chin. "Never been pruned, either."

Exactly. I wanted the shrubs trimmed back, to open up the house's entrance and to give it a more balanced look. As it was now, the shrub on the left was easily twice the size of its partner to the right.

"Do you know the best way to prune?" The arborist asked.

I grinned. "Close my eyes and hack away." I think he thought I was joking.

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Signs of Snow

I do not know how long my daughter has been driving around on a flattish tire.

Neither does she.

Neither, in fact, does my husband, who, in denial of the sad, sagging evidence before him, declared the tire gauge to be broken.

Today is the day: Monday, mother of all get things done days, the day of fresh to-do lists, lists full of intention and promise and hope. Today, I get my daughter's tire fixed.

I step outside and work the ice from the windshield, glancing nervously at the tire, wondering if it will be able to limp the half mile into town. I drive slowly, holding up traffic and occasionally driving down the center of the road to avoid the potholes that gather at the street's edges. At the repair shop, I hand the keys over to the woman behind the desk and head home on foot.

My breath comes in thick puffs as I walk, gloved hands jammed into my coat pockets. Everywhere I look, fallen autumn leaves are edged in frost.

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