3:00 AM Marginalia: The Parking Lot Tree in Its Concrete Tomb

The dark presses right. 3 a.m. again, mind circling the parking lot I pulled into earlier. Grocery store run, nothing special. But there it was: a dead tree on its little island of grass, encased in concrete like an open casket. Tombstone straight, no other trees around. Supposed to green up the lot, make it "esthetic." Odd—the lot was once living soil, breathing, growing. Now it's sealed under asphalt, darkness covering earth like the beginning in Genesis, before the word split light from void.

Concrete stops the spread. Inflexible footsteps tramp over what was field, trap the soil in eternal night. Then we plop one tree back in—refugee in its own bosom. Roots starved, no kin to whisper with, no wind to carry seeds. It died alone, branches flickering out like a candle in wind. From Garden of Eden—lush, connected, God walking in cool—to this: one dead sentinel in a sea of cars. What happened?

Am I a good steward? God gave dominion—tend, keep, not pave and pretend with token trees. Should I fight parking lot trees altogether? Let the lot be what it is: barren monument to convenience. Why make the tree suffer? The landscapers planted it, city designers approved. But I drive there, park, shop. I'm no better. When did parking lot trees become normal, forests "problematic"? We normalize the tomb, forget the garden.

No answer comes. Just the ache: beginnings buried under progress, silence where growth should be. Observation hurts—seeing the dead tree, alone.

That's enough. The lot waits for morning. The guilt doesn't fade.