As the time for moving approached and he realized we were serious about relocating, he kept trying to come up with reasons for why he could not move. One of them was that he did not want to leave the little tree he had planted in our backyard. It was his tree, and he cried about leaving it. I told him I would try to transplant it, realizing that the chances it would take were extremely small, given that this was summer. I dug just as much of the roots as I could with the tree and hoped for the best.
I dug a hole near the big spruce trees at the corner of our new house in State College, planted the tree, and watered it regularly.
It died by the end of the summer.
And now whenever I mow the grass (including today), I notice how the mower dips a little when I go over the place where Michael's tree used to be.