A very tall tree stood in our backyard for a very long time. I don't recall what type of tree it was, only that my sister, Dana, used to sit under there, reading or simply thinking, for hours and hours, and I used to tease her with worms or snake skins and such the like. I remember that during the spring and summer months the leaves were thick, but not so much that you couldn't gaze up and see the sky's blue eyes peeking through.
I remember that, during the fall months, the leaves would turn a faded, ancient yellow and curl up and fall until they covered the ground, and the squirrels would play and fuss and scamper to and fro among the branches and the trunk. I remember I wanted to climb it when I reached the seventh grade, and my legs and arms grew long and lank, and my thoughts grew bored, moody and restless. I remember that I did try to climb it one day, but the procession of fire ants which paraded up my arm caused me to hasten down in a mad rush to be rid of them for they burned and stung in the most irritating way.
I remember sneaking out when the moon was full and capriciously glowing to watch my brother kiss his girlfriend beneath the tree. I remember that he lost that love and tried to scratch away the initials he had foolishly carved there.
I remember the winter months too, when I would gaze at the tree and it would gaze back at me in quiet, sleepful state, almost seeming to tell me, "Wait."
I waited, in patient agony on the day my mother died, her slow, laborious journey towards death ending in a barrage of pain. I waited, in grief, for the day Mary left, and I breathed a strong sigh, because I couldn't handle her whiny, ungrateful existence any longer. She left before we could have a child, and so I waited again for another chance to have one.
I waited, with thunderous groans, for my kidney stones to pass, alone in the house, alone with my pain.
I waited, tugging at my tie, hating my greased hair, wishing mom was there, for Dana to walk down the isle and marry her love. I waited for mine.
The years have sailed by without hindrance and, though the last 10 have been dark, I seem to have arrived safely, if a little uncertainly, upon a familiar shore. I stand before my childhood home. Though, it's not anymore, just the shadow of it. It was torn down to make room for a self-repeating complex of brand new condos. The tree is no longer there. Like my father, it slipped away unnoticed: quiet in life and quiet in death and I left with the memories like dreams which fade into a fantastical level of consciousness until you wonder at their validity, accuracy, and existence.
I remember that, during the fall months, the leaves would turn a faded, ancient yellow and curl up and fall until they covered the ground, and the squirrels would play and fuss and scamper to and fro among the branches and the trunk. I remember I wanted to climb it when I reached the seventh grade, and my legs and arms grew long and lank, and my thoughts grew bored, moody and restless. I remember that I did try to climb it one day, but the procession of fire ants which paraded up my arm caused me to hasten down in a mad rush to be rid of them for they burned and stung in the most irritating way.
I remember sneaking out when the moon was full and capriciously glowing to watch my brother kiss his girlfriend beneath the tree. I remember that he lost that love and tried to scratch away the initials he had foolishly carved there.
I remember the winter months too, when I would gaze at the tree and it would gaze back at me in quiet, sleepful state, almost seeming to tell me, "Wait."
I waited, in patient agony on the day my mother died, her slow, laborious journey towards death ending in a barrage of pain. I waited, in grief, for the day Mary left, and I breathed a strong sigh, because I couldn't handle her whiny, ungrateful existence any longer. She left before we could have a child, and so I waited again for another chance to have one.
I waited, with thunderous groans, for my kidney stones to pass, alone in the house, alone with my pain.
I waited, tugging at my tie, hating my greased hair, wishing mom was there, for Dana to walk down the isle and marry her love. I waited for mine.
The years have sailed by without hindrance and, though the last 10 have been dark, I seem to have arrived safely, if a little uncertainly, upon a familiar shore. I stand before my childhood home. Though, it's not anymore, just the shadow of it. It was torn down to make room for a self-repeating complex of brand new condos. The tree is no longer there. Like my father, it slipped away unnoticed: quiet in life and quiet in death and I left with the memories like dreams which fade into a fantastical level of consciousness until you wonder at their validity, accuracy, and existence.
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