If there is one thing New Hampshire has a lot of, it's trees. Pine, maple, oak, birch, apple, poplar, ash; the list goes on. Some are more desirable than others, but they're abundant all the same. When I first moved into my house, the previous owner had cleared the field, and the majority of the trees were off in the distance, with the exception of a few around the house. A few years back, a couple of pine trees popped up near the edge of the yard. Then a few more. Then a lot more. It didn't take long for them to grow quite tall, creating somewhat of a curtain between the yard and the rest of the property. Now there are so many, it's hard to even remember what it looked like before they were there.

On the backside of the house are a few maple trees. They sit just a stone's throw from my bedroom window. I have always had visions of tapping them in the springtime and getting enough sap to make a bit of maple syrup, just to say I did. But each year, the warmer days arrive suddenly, and I find myself unprepared, and I've missed my chance once again. It's too bad, too, because those maple trees have to come down this fall, so it seems I'll never have the opportunity to tap them ever again.

I'm sad about the maple trees' tenure coming to an end; they are big and beautiful, and have stood there probably longer than I've been alive. I feel a twinge of guilt each time I think about them being cut down, but I know it's what has to be done, as they have grown incredibly big and are extremely close to the house. Truth be told, they should have come down long before they reached this height—probably long before I even lived here.

As I often do, I will likely wish I took the maple trees down sooner once they are actually gone and the issues they have been causing are too. Still, each time I think of the day they are set to come down, I see The Lorax peeking out from the pines across the yard, looking at me with disapproval through his mustached face. Regardless of my own hesitation and the made-up judgment I've imposed upon myself from the fictional Dr. Seuss character, I know this is the right thing to do. The only options I have are that either the trees come down safely and planned, or they come down on top of the house during some crazy storm. Either way, they can't stay. So in the meantime, I'll keep my fingers crossed that the wind stays low and tell The Lorax to leave me alone.

Paige O. Roberts has a degree in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Henniker Review, Sidereal Magazine, Rejection Letters, and Cypress. She has been nominated for a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize. She lives in northern New Hampshire, where she owns and operates a pet boutique called Tailswag.