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The sun goes down just before 11PM and comes up again at four in the morning. I go out for a walk one evening just before the sun sets. I walk until past midnight, through the bluest time of nightfall and into the dark. To stay on course for the harbor, I walk alongside the stubby, twisted elm trees that line major Stavanger streets. These trees are not tall or stately like ordinary elms, a rare moss shortening their branches to knobs pincushioned with masses of foot-long twigs.
I hate how they stand against the dark, knotted and twisted around each other. They make me think of horrible things. Lavinia, left for dead with her hands cut off into stumps. I can hear the trees overhead, creaking in the wind, rasping and pulling against one another. To comfort myself, I review what I know of the elm as I walk quickly beside them.
Despite their association with death, elms have powerful healing properties. A tea made with bark of the Slippery elm, for example, will soothe the throat and bladder in cases of infection. At home in Santa Fe, Siberian elms are considered an invasive species, universally despised for the mass of golden seed pods infesting the streets during spring, collecting in storm grates and sidewalk corners by the thousands, puncturing through drainage pipes when they manage to take root.
Elm wood is durable underground and thus often used in coffin making, perhaps where it gets its sinister reputation. Elm haiteth man and waiteth , goes the saying. The streets begin to narrow around me and the ground changes from concrete to cobblestone. Now white-washed houses stand against the dark and maroon hollyhocks, no doubt planted in late winter to have grown this high, brush my sleeves as I walk past and out of the trees.