The Tree

The Tree

I have lived here for longer than you know or understand.

My memory runs in continuous loops deep inside me.

I remember when you were but a child and would play beneath me.

Matchbox cars and Barbie dolls, G.I. Joes and Polly Pocket.

I would shade you from the sun and watch your little games.

As you grew older, your friends played in my shelter as well.

Climbing, building forts, hanging a tire swing from my strongest arm.

I remember the times you would rest your head and arms against me

And count to a hundred because you were it and the others were hiding.

The day you fell off me and your parents rushed you to the hospital,

I was frightened because I could feel the blood from your forehead on my feet.

You avoided me, all of you avoided me, for weeks after.

I thought I would be all alone, doomed to life as a sentinel,

But you came back and climbed me again and again.

In the winter you built snowmen beneath my bare body.

In the spring you would open your lemonade stand beneath my new canopy.

In the summer you would swing on that old tire until surely you thought you were flying.

In the fall you would clean up after me as I readied myself for another harsh season.

When your curfew was set early, you would climb down me to meet your friends.

You had your first kiss in the privacy of my arms.

As the storms raged on I would tap and scratch at your glass wishing to be in there with you.

You married your one true love beneath my shelter and you still kiss here every evening.

Now your children play and swing and climb and gladly I hold them for you.