One of my favorite things about the house I live in is my back yard. Growing up, it was like a sanctuary. When I’d step out, it’d be like stepping into a little forest. The boundaries were fence and trees twice as tall as my house and full and lush and green. There were hydrangea bushes and hostas that came out and bloomed beautiful and full in the summer. The grass seemed like an endless deep expanse to explore.
Early in my childhood I got upset when we had to trim a tree hanging over a neighbor’s yard. When I was 13 years old, the first tree came down. Before then, the grass had started to thin because of my dogs using it as their playground and bathroom. And this past year has taken the worst toll on my santuary: the thick line of trees that cut my yard off from the street behind it was taken down, two of the tallest trees had to come down because of splitting, and because of the harsh winter we’ve just had, almost none of the foliage came out in my yard.
I’m so disappointed to see my sanctuary slowly destroyed. People have started a steady pattern of hurting the little oasis someone one built my house in the middle of. For no significant reason other than “because we can and we want to,” my little bit of nature is turned into a barren yard.
I can’t help but think about all the animals that lived in my yard before it got slowly stripped. I imagine all the little birds and squirrels lost of trees and all the bugs who’ve been trampled by my puppies. I wonder where we would be left if some larger creature where to come to our towns and knocked down our homes. That, I’m sure, would incite the same sadness and rage that I feel toward the destruction of my sanctuary.
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