The Sapling of 2021.

The sapling grew between the fence and the shed again, almost as high as the power lines. 

Dan noticed it while at the breakfast table as he sipped his coffee.

‘Goddammit! When the hell did that happen?’ Dan snapped, waving a hand in the direction of the affront. “I cut that down just weeks ago. Turn my head and there it is again.'

He slapped the tabletop.

'I didn’t sign up for this. Cutting down weed trees every Got-Damnt year!’

‘You need to calm down. It’s not a big deal,’ Jane said.

His wife, Jane. There she goes again with that ‘not a big deal’ routine.

What the hell does she know? Sure feels like a big deal. She’s not the one who has to crawl back there, on her hands and knees, with a limb saw, and the bugs, and animal shit -- again -- and repeat the back-and-forth yanking and shoving and sweating and cussing. Why the fuck did we buy this house in the first place?

‘Take a break, Dan. You’re freaking out again,’ Jane said. She didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle. She didn’t sound concerned, annoyed, or frustrated.

That concerned Dan. It frustrated him, too.

He briskly stepped past her, slid-banged the screen door open and paced out to the shed. Arms on hips, staring up at the ash tree sapling.

‘You little fucker!’ he yelled. ‘This won’t stand. This is the last time!’

Jane glanced up from her crossword.

Dan kicked the shed door inward, but it wasn’t built to open that way. He yanked it outward and slammed his knee with the door frame. He kicked again, wildly, with rage, and put his foot through the weathered particle board. He extracted his foot and disappeared into the shed, followed by muffled cursing, crashing, rattling. 

Seconds later, he emerged with a pair of gasoline cans, spilling their contents from the spouts as he wrestled and jerked his way past the sagging garden gate toward the kitchen door.

‘Whoa!’ Jane shouted.

She stood quickly. Dan had her attention now.

‘What are you doing with that?’ she demanded.

‘Where’s the lighter?’ Dan said.

Jane stood in the doorway, barring his entry. Dan stood at the bottom of the patio steps, gasoline cans in both arms, heaving, shuddering, teeth clenched.

'There is no lighter in this house,' she said.

She hadn't recognized it in time. She’d been distracted with work, with the kids at school, with her high-maintenance friend’s latest divorce saga, with her crossword puzzle. Why can’t she finish just one? Always an interruption. It’s always something. Often, that something was Dan.

He gets like this sometimes. He acts like a scrawny Incredible Hulk with an impotent temper that never transforms him into anything incredible -- other than an incredibly unpleasant asshole.

'Matches, then?’ Dan asked.

That’s a good sign, she thought. He now had a new problem to solve. He'll come around. It takes time -- time Jane never seemed to have, but always seemed to find.

'No matches, either.'

Dan lifted one of the gasoline cans, as if to help her examine the problem in his hand.

'These are almost empty,' he said. 'Gotta refill them. I need the car keys. Lawnmower is almost empty.'

'You should probably refill those,' she said. 'Take the truck. I don’t want to smell the fumes in the car. And take your time.’

Dan looked at her with annoyance, as if he had made some trenchant point that she failed to recognize. Jane stepped aside as he walked through the kitchen to the front door of the house.

He kicked the screen door and held it open with his foot.

'I want to burn it all down. I’ve had it. That’s the last time. I’ve reached a limit,' Dan said.

'I know, now go refill the cans.'

Dan walked through the doorway and let the screen slam shut.

Jane retrieved the pack of cigarettes she hid in the jade plant. She sat, crossed her legs, opened the pack, selected a smoke, produced a lighter from her pocket. She lit, she inhaled, she exhaled.

A breeze awoke the wind chimes hanging from the eves and rustled the leaves of the ash sapling.

Her time will come.