first writing in four months
I woke up on my fifteenth birthday and the weeping willow in my backyard was gone. It hadn’t belonged to us, it was on our neighbor’s property, but its low hanging branches provided me with sanctuary on countless summer days. Its absence, on that day, was sorely noticed.
We were driving to our new home two weeks before my twentieth birthday, and a weeping willow branch swept across our truck’s windshield. I remembered the weeping willow in the backyard and briefly I tossed around some ideas in my mind of what could have happened to the tree. The neighbors had gotten tired of it. It was infested. It didn’t fit the new, drier and more predictable landscape that my hometown had begun to endorse.
Whatever it was, it shocked me that I had forgotten all about it. I can’t remember any of the things I’ve forgotten, and I think that’s why I keep on leaving.
We were driving to our new home two weeks before my twentieth birthday, and a weeping willow branch swept across our truck’s windshield. I remembered the weeping willow in the backyard and briefly I tossed around some ideas in my mind of what could have happened to the tree. The neighbors had gotten tired of it. It was infested. It didn’t fit the new, drier and more predictable landscape that my hometown had begun to endorse.
Whatever it was, it shocked me that I had forgotten all about it. I can’t remember any of the things I’ve forgotten, and I think that’s why I keep on leaving.