Gusts of wind arrive and the rhododendron’s branches scrape at the clapboards – flecks of khaki paint in the green grass growing against the foundation. The shrub is trying to get in. It is a panicky house pet trying to get you to open the door before an unseen pursuer catches up. The shrub is not welcome in the house and you cannot stand to listen to the sporadic scratching so you decide to cut the rhododendron away from the siding. With clippers in your chapped hand you announce, “I am going to trim the bush out front.” “I know another Bush that needs trimming...” she replies dryly. The first cut is well thought out and tentative (one’s father might even say prudent) – a branch anchored by dark green leaves drops to the ground. You continue snipping – focusing on him now instead of the task at hand. His war. His lie to get us to think it was necessary to go to war. His religion that somehow says that this war is necessary because he declared it and he trusts that God speaks through him. You then look down – the rhododendron has been reduced to several branches. Oh, shit! you think to yourself. I am carrying out his environmental plan.
