Magic.

I was taught magic by a witch who lived in the Montrose.
She kept cats by the dozens in her yard to protect her from evil.
She said that was their purpose: magic requires life.

Branches have been falling down on our house since the day we moved in.
And they do so times ten on windy days.
The trees were dying; we saved most of them; the dead ones linger.

Every house we've owned has lost its trees. The pines at Gatehouse Lane.
The firs at Calle Del Corrida. The old ashes at Kenny Street.
There was a tree outside my window in Kilkenny. My pirate ship. My Rebel Base.

The IRA blew it up when I was seven.
That tree cleaved our house; killed my dog.
It was a miracle that we all weren't killed; magic requires life.

I was taught marksmanship by a Drill Sergeant at Fort Jackson.
Magic is bullshit, he said when he caught me reading Tolkein. Magic's for faggots.
Magic was later my assigned radio call sign; how right he turned out to be.