Son, what lunatic humors compelled you to cut down the tree? Your mother loved that tree! Seven years I spent nurturing and growing it, yet you obliterated it in a single afternoon.
Did you really think I would not be angry just because you confessed? Truth, George, is a lovely quality in a youth. But do you know what is even lovelier? The capacity not to hack up your parents’ cherry tree for no goddamn reason.
Did the tree offend you in some way? Did it fail to provide sufficient shade? I am simply trying to understand what you were thinking. You see your mother’s most cherished object, a beautiful little cherry tree, and your instinct is to violently destroy it. Are you a budding serial killer, George? Is this how it starts—first you chop up plants, then animals, then finally your fellow man?
I really worry about you, George Washington. I fear for your future.