ink smeared thoughts: March 2012

I received news recently that I am a finalist (one of four) in a local; yet huge awards. It is called the Bernice Adams Memorial Awards. I am in the Literary Arts category and there is a big to-do (I have to wear a suit ?!) Maybe this is a sign that things are turning around for me. I love to write but recently gave up on it (yes again) but when I got the letter in the mail I decide to dig out my memory sticks and look through them. Some I had forgotten about and some I would have sooner forgotten about; but those too are a part of me. A part of my writing. I want to post Why The Willow Weeps today; in it's entirety. If the award leads me anywhere; Why the Willow Weeps; along with Cody's Story will be the first two that I share. I hope you enjoy Why The Willow Weeps.

Why the Willow Weeps

The rope that was tied to the branch of the will tree had grown worn and was slightly unraveling. The other end of the rope was tied around the truck tire. The ends of the nylon rope were black from melting the ends together with a lighter; giving it added strength to hold our weight; as we took turns on the tire swing. Years before we had wandered through these fields; these fields we called the “willows”; exploring. We had discovered a lot. We discovered the foundation of an old farmhouse. Grey stones piled about three feet high; mortar now crumbled. We stepped over the walls and eyed the tire that now hangs from the branches of this willow tree. A slight breeze blows; spinning the tire. I can almost hear the laughter around me.

The day we hung our tire up was an amazing day. We tossed the yellow nylon rope up into the branches of the tree. After more than a few attempts we managed to get it over a good sturdy branch. We shimmied up the tree and tied it good and tight. Down below we looped the rope through the tire and tied off the ends. A good strong and sturdy swing.

“Try it out “

I stepped through the tire; one leg at a time and sat down and kicked off with my feet. I didn’t get much attitude. I would be a featherweight in boxing.

“I’ll give you a push”

Reaching towards heaven! I was soaring on the swing; able to reach out and touch the gentle leaves of the willow. The branches, almost tickling my face. My ride was ending; yet a journey had just begun. I touched my feet to the ground and stepped out.

“Your turn Hercules “I said jokingly

It was funny watching him get into the tire and trying to kick off. He was packed in that swing, tighter than sardines in a tin. His feet were pointed towards each other; almost looking pigeon toed. He was a fair bit sturdier than I was.

“Give me a push”

I leaned into his back and pushed full forward with all I had. He was airborne; for a few seconds. There he sat on the ground; tire still around his middle. The nylon rope twisting in the air; still tied to the tree.

“Hmmph” He got to his feet; me laughing.

That is why he burnt the ends of the rope together. We took turns swinging. We even tested the strength by having us both on the swing. I sat in the tire while he stood in it; holding the rope.

We sat under that willow tree so many times; talking and in silence; yet there was a lot said. Glancing at each other once in a while said a lot.

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I would gather up willow branches from around the base of the tree and braid them together.

“Here you go. A crown for Nero” I said

He placed the crown of willow upon his head and pretended to be Nero; playing the fiddle while Rome burned around him. Oddly enough; he looked more like he was playing the air guitar and dancing like Britney Spears.

“Come on. Let’s walk around”

I got up from my spot and walked through the fields; back to the foundation of the farmhouse. He was still wearing his crown. He bent down and picked buttercups and violets and baby’s breath flowers and tucked them throughout his crown and placed it on his head. He put his hand on his hip and strutted through the long grass; then broke into a run, yelling “Pa! Mary fell in the well”

“Oh God!” I thought. He was imitating Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie.

We sat in the walls of the remains of the farmhouse and overturned rocks and poked mortar from the cracks with sticks.

“I would love to live out here; wouldn’t you? Listen “

I could only hear birds off in the willow tree and a bumblebee buzzing around my friend.

“It’s so quiet you can hear yourself think. “He said and quickly added “Okay, maybe YOU can’t hear yourself think”

“Smartass!” I said; nudging him on the shoulder.

We sat. We spoke and we communicated with so many unspoken words.

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We took our time walking back to the willow tree.

“Come on!”

From behind me; at full speed, he came running at me; hands grabbing my shoulders; his legs wrapped around my waist.

“Piggy Back ride! “ What an ass; I thought. He has a good thirty pounds over me. I toppled over; him landing on me. I struggled from under him but was laughing so much; as he was as well,

We sat back under our tree, drinking soda we had brought with us in our backpacks. My back against the tree. He; lying in his right side; chipping away at a branch with his pocket knife.

“Gonna make me a fishing pole” he said in a mock redneck accent

“That’s cool; but where are you going to fish; there is no water around here” I reminded him

“Never said I was fishin’, said I was gonna make a fishin’ pole”

“And what about fishing line” I asked

“We make do with what we got. There’s extra rope from the swing”

That fishing pole and line were a rare sight indeed. The rod; no thicker than a pencil; yet the line was thicker than my thumb.

“And for a hook?” I asked

“Mere technicality” he replied

“The fish will never bite on that line. They will see it”

“Maybe some will, but I am fishing for the dumb fish” he said

I rolled my eyes. He ended up finishing that fishing pole. As dumb as it looked; I would learn later in life that it did work.

He explained how he would drop crumbs in the surface of the water and he would wait until the fish came up. He didn’t use a hook. On the end of that fishing line (rope) he had tied a rock. Over the shoulder; he would place the road and SMACK. Fish came floating to the top of the pond.

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I often go back to that place; familiar and so welcoming to me. It is as though these gently blowing willow branches beckon to me; to sit below its branches. Often; even when the ground is covered in snow; I would trudge through the fields just to watch the branches blow.

….as the willow weeps; at times like me

…..across the fields; I do see...

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We wandered there so many times during summer and every so often we would hop on our bicycles and travel up the dirt path. We would drop our bikes; side by side and we would race to the tire swing. I would slow down, just as I got to the swing. It mattered not that you were the first to swing. Usually; he would ask me to step on behind him; holding the nylon rope in my hands. There were times we would both be on the swing and he would kick his feet out furiously about. The swing would swing in a circle; picking up speed. The colors around us blended together. We laughed and we felt nauseous at the same time. The tire slowed to a stop and we both slumped to the ground feeling like we would throw up. We didn’t throw up. We did that again, so many times.

A lone weekend in the summer; a few years ago we grabbed our backpacks filled with food and water and a tent and took off to the willows. I still call it the “willows”. For some it would or could be any non-descript field; but for us; it was the willows. The tree, swing, foundation; it was all part of the “willows”.

We set up our tent and wandered the woods around us. We followed a path downhill to an algae covered pond; a new discovery for us. We sat on an old tree that had fallen and long since lost its foliage and bark. It lay partially across the pond. We sat. We watched. We listened. We loved; where were, at that moment. So many moments. Time; seemingly had stopped. Yet; around us it went on and wanting to or not; time marched on. We hiked back up the hill gathering twigs and branches as we went.

By the time we had got a small campfire going; the sun had set and the moon was high in the sky surrounded by stars. We sat on opposite sides of the fire poking at the embers; smoke blowing into our faces. The boulders we used as seats radiated heat from the fire and we soon moved them back a bit. Burning embers popped and flew from the fire; sometimes almost hitting us.

“We should have brought a radio” I said

“We don’t need music- listen.” The sky was full of stars, the moon shone brightly; and yes there was music. Down by the pond we heard the frogs; behind us in the grass, we heard the crickets chirp. Somewhere in the distance we heard an owl hoot. He was right. We didn’t need a radio or music; for we had something far better. We had all the sounds of nature. We sat by the fire, taking it all in. The wood we had gathered quickly burnt out so we gathered some from the foundation of the farmhouse.

….as the fire burns and the smoke does rise

……I see its reflection in your eyes

…….I tries to take my gaze off you

………but in my heart; it says its true

I sharpened the end of a branch and cooked a few wieners; turning the branch until the wieners were evenly cooked and had split open.

“Let me see that stick. I want to show you something.”

I handed him the stick and he placed a wiener lengthwise onto it. He took his pocket knife and cut into the end of the wiener; cutting into quarters, cutting about an inch deep and then into eighths.

“Now watch the magic” he said. Little things mean a lot to me. Almost upon putting the wiener into the flames; the ends curled up. He pulled the stick from the fire and handed it to me and said “A daisy for you”

It was so cool/ I had never seen that before. I almost didn’t want to eat it but my hunger told me otherwise.

Eventually the fire burnt itself out and it was getting a bit chilly but it was still too early to head to bed.

“Here; take my sweater. I will grab my sweatshirt” he offered

I pulled the navy blue sweater over my head; smelling the Kenneth Cole Black cologne on it.

“I spy with my little eye; I see something white” he said; returning to the fire from the tent

It was almost pitch black out. Other than the moon and the stars; I could see nothing.

“The stars?” I responded

“But which one?” he asked

“You are kidding. There are millions. I don’t know which one” I said

I looked up and pointed at to be; what I thought was the most vibrant one of all.

“That one” I said; pointing. He put his head directly in front of mine and followed the length of my pointing finger with his.

“Yes. That is the one” he said

“The brightest one I see” he added

He sat back on his boulder; final embers in the fire now extinguished.

“I spy with my little eye; I see something ….”

“Not another one?” I asked

“Last one. I see something brown “

I looked around; nothing I could see “No idea “

“Your eyes” he said. I never even knew he noticed the color of my eyes. He got up and stretched his arms; rolling his shoulders.

“I think I am going to the tent now” he said

“I think I am going to sit here for a while longer” I told him

He walked behind me and headed for the tent; but called out “Hey! I spy something else brown ant it is right behind you. , A BEAR! “

I quickly spun around and he was laughing. With that; he came running at me; tackling me off my boulder and pinning me to the ground.

“Lucky for you; I am not hungry” His hands held my wrists down and he sat on my knees. I didn’t even try to break free. The moon shone down onto his face making the whites of his eyes look whiter and the blue so much more vibrant.

…as the moon reflects upon your eyes

…my heart makes wishes; on the stars in the sky

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The morning sun woke us early- the tent feeling like a sauna. I stepped out if the tent; barefoot feeling the blades of grass between my toes. I looked at the fire pit and our boulders we sat upon. I gathered up the pieces of wood that lay around the fire pit; as we could use it again. I bent down and picked up a piece of two by four that we had brought up from the farmhouse foundation and was about toss it into the fire pit.

“Not that one; I want that one, I am carving something on it, please don’t look at it right now” he asked me

I set the piece of wood back down and walked to our bikes and grabbed our backpacks.

After we ate a few granola bars and bottled water, we folded up our sleeping bags and headed off through the fields; both of us barefoot. We walked onward; down a valley and up a small hill. We sat to rest awhile. I could smell something I had always loved. It tickled my nose. It was lavender. I inhaled deeply and stood up. I could see acres of purple just on the other side of the hill. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me. He ran after me; quickly catching up. It was like the scene from The Wizard of Oz in the field of poppies; yet my field of dreams was lavender. I dropped to the ground and rolled in it. My sweater picked up the scent. His sweater I was wearing. A mix of lavender and Kenneth Cole Black

…I could have stayed for hours

…just rolling in the flowers

…essence of lavender and your cologne

…glad it was “we” and not me alone

“You really like this stuff; don’t you “he asked with a broad smile

“I have dreamt of lavender so many times”

We lay in the field; thick of lavender with our hands resting behind out heads, staring at the sky.

“What are some of you other dreams?” he asked

I told him some of the dreams I have; but not all.

“What are your dreams?” I asked

“Simply to live life the best way we can …isn’t that enough” he replied

“Did you know lavender is supposed to help you sleep” I asked him

“Does it help stop snoring too? You certainly snore” he asked

I poked him in the chest and told him that I do not snore. Maybe I make noises in my sleep but I do not snore.

…woke up hearing myself cry

…eyes were wet; yet my cheeks were dry

We got up from the fields of lavender and headed back

“Hold on a second. I think I dropped my wallet- I will catch up”

I walked on and within a matter of moments he had caught up to me

“Forgot I didn’t bring my wallet”

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The second night we sat around the fire listening once again to the sounds of nature’s symphony; making floral wieners yet again and toasting marshmallows. We would toast the marshmallows; pull of its crusty baked shell and do it until nothing remained of the marshmallows.

I sat there. “I spy with my little eye, I see something blue” It was my turn

“The sky above us “he asked

“Nope”

He hesitated and looked around “The tent?”

“Wrong again”

“I give up “he said

“Your eyes” I said and turned my sights to the flickering flames that lapped at the underside of the wood. Bat flew above us and little moths fluttered near the fire; sometimes getting to close to the fire.

He picked up the two by four piece of lumber and opened his pocket knife. Chipping away. Chipping away. Methodically . He carved away at it for hours. I tried sneaking glance and he would gently scold me with “hey Hey hey” My eye and thoughts were lost in the night sky. I seen the same star we eyed playing “eye spy” the previous night. I stared at it. At times it looked as though it blinked; urging me to make a wish on it. I had wished on so many stars; so many different stars. Would this one be any different? I made my wish soon; I hoped I would get my wish. Very soon, I hoped.

“Okay-finished do you want to see it now?” I jumped from my boulder and moved over to him; standing and looking in awe. I am so glad I stood behind him so he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes. On that piece of wood. Now a work of art; he had carved the willow tree ; complete with the swing. He had meticulously carved in the foundation of the farmhouse. In doing so he had carved a deeper impression in my heart and soul.

“That is awesome “I said trying to hold back my true excitement

I handed it back to him. “Can you put the date on it too?”

“Do you always date your memories? This is a piece of wood. I could toss it in the fire and we’d still have the memories of the tree swing, the willow tree everything” he said; sounding a bit perturbed

He was right but he had put so much effort into it. Maybe it didn’t mean the same to him. Maybe I didn’t mean as much to me as I mean to him.

“there’s not a thing about you or anything that we have done; or things that we have said ; or maybe things we’ve wanted to do or say to each other that I won’t remember “ he said

He handed me the carved piece of wood and walked away.

“Look on the back” he said.

I turned it over. He had already had the date and both of our initials carved into a picture of a willow tree. I was speechless.

We sat by the fire; listening to nothingness; yet everything. It was now calm; no owls hoot, not a cricket chirped. No crackling embers in the fire; just one glowing log at the bottom.

He got up from his boulder; stood behind me and with one hand on my right shoulder and his other hand brushing my brow he speaks.

“I know how you feel. I feel it too. Can we fight it? Do we fight it? Do we give into love?” and then he added “I am going to the tent now “

I sat there and thought about what he had said. Do we give in to love? Was love a fight? A battle of sorts? Don’t we just accept love when it finds us or we find it?

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When I climbed into the tent I thought he was sleeping so I tried to be a quiet as I could.

“Its okay. I am not sleeping” He stirred in his sleeping bag and turned onto his side; facing me as I settled into my own sleeping bag.

“Look at the stars tonight “

“I do every night, I can’t seem not to look” I answered back

He hadn’t put up the tent fly tonight .We had our own skylight to the world

“Do you know there are names to the constellations “he asked?

“I know there are but other than the Big Dipper and Little dipper; I don’t know the names “I answered back

“Well. Looky here “he said pointing. “There is the little dipper”. He move his finger again and says “there’s the Big dipper, and there we have the biggest dip shit of all” pointing at me and then pouncing on me; still in his sleeping bag.

He held me down “Resistance is futile. No sense fighting” he said and quickly added “Muah ha ha “

Even if I wanted to fight back; I couldn’t. I was tucked comfortably into my sleeping bag; much like a moth in a cocoon or a human taco. He rolled off of me but stayed beside me pulling his arms above his head; resting it on my pillow. Our cheeks touched as we both gazed out into the night sky.

“I know what constellation is there” he said; pointing “all of them as one is simply called beautiful”

I shifted in my sleeping bag. As pleasant as it was lying side by side; I was getting warm. I unzipped my sleeping bag and swung out my right leg. I pulled my arms out and rested them at my sides; brushing my left hand against his ribs.

“Man, you have cold hands “he said as he jumped a little

“Cold hands - warm heart “I said. My hands tend to get cold when I am nervous

“Maybe so; but it’s not your heart that is freezing my ribcage” he responded

He took my hand and placed it between his two hands and rubbed it. “Let’s see the other one now “He rubbed that one too.

“One more night and back to so-called reality” he said as he looked into my eyes. He had what I thought to be a look of sadness.

“I spy with my little eye; I see something invisible yet so beautiful”

“Invisible? That’s not a color “I said and added as my reply “the air we breathe?”

“Nope; wrong answer”

“I have no idea” I responded

“Umm I will give you one more hint. It is in the tent”

“I give up!” I aid with mock frustration pulling at my hair

“It’s your soul…goodnight “he said as he leaned a bit to the left and turned out the portable Coleman light.

I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours; switching sides and lying on my back.

“Are you still awake? “ I asked

“I am” he replied

“I spy with my damp brown eyes; I see something I love” I said nervously but I had to say it

“I know you do and I love you too”

There we were; side by side; staring at the stars; light reflecting the tears in both of our eyes. I reached my hand down and rubbed my fingers on his hand.

“Let me guess; your hands are cold?”

“Not at all. I just want to hold your hand as we fall asleep”

…asleep side by side

…eyes open wide

…staring up into the vast space

…tears, roll down our face

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We woke up still holding hands; fingers intertwined. He was already awake. “You could have woken me “I said

“You were peaceful. I didn’t want to bother you” he said stretching his arms and yawning.

I did the same. We both lay there for awhile still holding hands; wondering what today would bring.

We stepped out into the sunshine. I bent down and did up my laces on my shoes and pulled the sweater over my head and tossed it back into the tent.

“Come on. Let’s go”

“Where are we heading?” I asked

“Just follow me and we will either both know where we are, or we will both be lost”

“Aren’t we going to eat something first “I asked?

“Nature is ours for the taking. Besides, we have to be back in the city tomorrow; so let’s not waste anytime”

He started running ahead of me; full speed ahead! I quickly followed. We ran until we came to the peak of the hill. We were back in the fields of lavender. This time; it was he who rolled in the field; giggling like a child. I fell to the ground alongside him; rolling along with him. We lay on our backs. Without asking; he reached for my right hand and placed it on his chest.

“Feel my heart racing?” he asked. It definitely was beating. Mine was too.

“Feel mine” I took his free hand and placed it on my chest. The lavender seemed to smell stronger as it mixed with the beads of perspiration on our chests.

“Heavens scent that is heaven sent” he said; pulling handfuls from the earth. Some pulled from the ground; roots still intact.

“Maybe I will try growing some” he said as he continued to pull more from the ground.

“We are going to sleep good tonight. I am bringing some back to the tent” he said

We lay in the field; shirtless and sweating under the sun. A small pond of perspiration had gathered in his sternum. I ran my index finger through it and down to his navel. I looked at him and he smiled. I smiled back; leaned over and gave him a single kiss on the cheek. He kissed me back; not on the cheek bit; rather on the lips. Eyes wide open looking into mine; looking into my soul;”invisible yet beautiful” as he called it. We both keep our eyes open when we kiss one another; knowing it is just me and him. He rolled over and lay upon my chest and with both hands rubs my shoulders and neck... It is difficult for me to keep my eyes open as it is so relaxing yet so exciting. After awhile he stops and asks how it felt. I told him it felt really good but now it was his turn. We switched positions. I rubbed some of the lavender between the palms of my hands and rubbed his neck and shoulders. “Oh man that feels good “he said; eyes opening and closing. He had fallen asleep. I let him sleep. I lay there with my chest against his side. ; running my fingers through his hair as he slept.

…beside me in this field you sleep

…in my heart; your love I keep

…my fingers run through your hair

…my eyes watch you; sleeping there.

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After he woke up we walked in a new direction. We came across an apple tree and grabbed one each and ate it on our way.

“Do you think we will get a chance to come back here before summer is over?” I asked

“I am hoping too. We will see “he answered

We finished our apples and walked on. Realizing he had forgotten his lavender he had picked; he ran back and gathered it up and caught up to me.

“Do you want to go to our willow tree?” he asked

We did.

…I wonder why this willow weeps

…could it be because we carved its bark; and left our initials, as a lover mark

…does that willow weep in truly knowing?

… In knowing that our love is growing.

We sat at the base of the tree; carving our initials into the trunk.

“You carve mine and I will carve your initials” he said as he passed me the knife. I took the pocket knife and carefully chipped away at the bark; leaving his initials in the trunk. He took the knife from me and did the same for me. He added something else, a small heart with two stems of lavender growing from the top of it. Beside the heart he carved the date.

“Hey wasn’t it you who told me that memories stick with you; in your mind you don’t need mementos?” I reminded him

He kept on carving into the tree; not responding.

“All done! “He said. I looked. It was a piece of art for sure.

We swung on our tire, one at a time and both at once.

We walked back to the tent. It was already dark and we didn’t bother to start a fire. We lay our sleeping bags on the ground and stared up into the sky. We held hands; hearts connected; shared souls.

“Back in a minute” he said as he jumped up and went into the tent. He poked his head out.

“We should get back to the city pretty early tomorrow; maybe we should just head in to bed”

I gathered up our sleeping bags and passed them into the tent. Heaven scent that’s heaven sent. He had placed lavender on the floor of the tent.

“You will sleep well tonight” he said

We didn’t sleep much at all. We talked. We hugged and we held hands. For the first time I had seen him allow himself to cry; to let his tears flow from his eyes. I cried along with him. For him and for myself and for us. He fell asleep; two of us in one sleeping bag, my hand draped over his chest .His head rested on my chest... His sternum was wet; but not with beads of sweat. Rather it was a mixture of his and my tears. I rubbed his head.

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The sun was once again turning our tent into a sauna; we threw off the sleeping bag and stepped out into the sunlight. We gathered our things and packed up; not really wanting to. The two by four that was carved with memories of our weekend poked out the top of my backpack. We hopped on our bikes and headed down the path that came to the highway. We barely spoke. He looked at me and I looked at him. Tears in both our eyes.

“Tell me this was all real “he asked me “Please tell me it was”

“It was and it is “I said reaching over to give him one more kisses.

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Labor Day we went back to the willow. We sat on our swing; lay in the field of heaven scent and sat on the walls of the farmhouse. He got up and walked to where the fire had burned. It was too quiet. Something had changed.

“I have something for you “he said

He handed me a small package wrapped in Sunday comics. I opened it. It was a small sachet made from the pockets of his jeans. Sewed together with bright yellow thread.

“That thread is from the rope that our tire swing hangs by” he said; not looking at me

I knew by the scent of it; he had stuffed it full of lavender.

“I made that when we were here for the long weekend; while you were sleeping lying by my side”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have to , He knew how I felt about it ; just by the look on my face and the tears streaming down my face . I wrapped the sachet back up in the Sunday comics. A square of paper fell out. I picked it up and went to unfold it.

“Not now please. Later. I want to go to our swing “he said.

I put the paper in my pocket along with the sachet

We went back to the swing and stayed until close to sundown.

I read the note --”We both know how Romeo and Juliet ended. As much as I want and still wish things could be different; they won’t. Romeo and Romeo are still taboo to so many people. It will always be Our Willows. There is not a thing about you or anything that we have done; or things that we have said or done; maybe things that we’ve wanted to do or say to each other that I won’t remember. I will remember it all. You too’ will remember all that and that will keep us going. This is not goodbye. Every time I look at that star, it will be us. When I smell lavender; that will be ours, you are likely hurting as much as I am; for that I am sorry and will always be sorry for. For what I received from you I am grateful and will be eternally grateful. I do love you. I could write an eternity about you and us; but it’s all there, in our heart and our minds,

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Why the Willow Weeps- The Finale

As I started down the hill; I took notice of a sign that read” Future Site of detached and semi-detached homes". I continue on down the hill; keeping my eyes on the plywood sign and the willow that stood in ever grand style just to the left of the sign.

Ravelling yellow rope strung through an old tire blowing slightly in the breeze. As I neared closer to the tire, a bird flitted from the tire and rested atop the willow; keeping an ever present gaze on me.

I circled around the tree looking at the initials carved in a heart at the base of the tree. The initials now had a scarred look them as the growth of bark had begun to take over.

"Hey There!" a loud voice boomed from behind me "This is private property"

"I don't see a private property sign" I replied

"Just about to post it" the man said

The burly man with the salt and pepper hair walked to his truck and pulled out a sign attached to a section of two by four lumber and pounded it into the ground with a heavy sledge hammer. Dust rose from the ground around it.

"Machinery moves in tomorrow. I suggest you take one last look around here; as in a few months you will not recognize the place" the burly man stated

My jaw dropped open. For years I have come to this spot on my own and with a friend. A friend like no other before him or since him.

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I wondered about; taking in the final views of not just the willow tree and the swing. I ventured up the hill and sat beneath the apple tree looking down into the fields of lavender as its scent blew towards me. Just as the willow does weep; I weep. As I sit with my back against the bark of the apple tree; my eyes grow heavy; yet I see the sun shine through my eyelids. Soon I am being pushed on the tire swing; my bare feet being tickled by the branches of the willow.

"Push me harder! Push me faster! Push me higher! "I hear myself shout through the boisterous laughter. The sun blinds me as I go higher; parallel to the ground.

Slowly I reach the ground, my feet kicking up a cloud of dust. We switched positions; my friend taking the swing and I pushing with all my might. My friend weighed a bit less than I; so in no time at all his legs pushed through the foliage of the willow.

"Whoa! Not so high” he yelled; looking back towards the ground at me.

The swing slowed to a stop and we rested against the willow; feeling the outline of the carved heart with our initials with our fingers.

"How many years have we been coming here?" I asked as I looked at my friend. He was pulling his hair down onto his forehead.

"Seven or eight, nine at the most" he replied

I remember meeting him one day when my bike had got a flat tire riding on the side of the country road. I figured I had run over a bottle; tossed from a moving car. My friend rode along with his Dad early in the mornings; before school delivering the rural mail. The morning I had the flat tire had been a rainy morning, complete with lightning. I had taken shelter just off the edge of the road under a mighty oak tree; my red CCM bike at the side of the road.

The mail truck pulled to a mail box just in front of me.

"Are you crazy?! Standing under a tree in a raging storm" yelled the boy from the passenger window of the pickup truck

"I have a flat tire" I yelled up the small embankment

"You will have more to worry about than a flat tire if you continue to stand under that tree"

The truck door opened and the boy jumped out; grabbed my bike and threw it in the back of the truck.

"Get In! We can fix your bike at my place" he shouted

I jumped in and shut the door.

As the truck pulled away from the edge of the road; BAM ! Lightning had struck the tree I had just been standing under. The tree literally exploded as I looked in the rear view mirror" We travelled on the road passing roadside vendors selling everything from salami to fresh cut flowers to handmade furniture.

After finishing up the mail run we pulled up to a galvanized gate at a farm and drove up the drive. We drove into the barn and the boy lifted my bike off the truck and set it on the floor of the barn.

-------------------------------------------

After a half hour or so my bike was fixed. My new friend handed me a small bike repair kit and I was on my way”

"See you around Lucky!” he called to me as I walked my bike out of the barn.

I really figure I was lucky that morning. At just after five in the morning there are not many vehicles on the road and I almost became a statistic to lightning strikes. I was definitely lucky as I had met a great friend.

Through resting against the apple tree I could hear the drone of the power lines overhead; yet I drifted between sleep and being semi alert to my surroundings.

----------------------

When my eyes opened; sun blinding me I saw the outline of the construction worker.

"You had better head on out and be on your way" Then his outline was gone

I stretched my arms above me and yawned; stood up and walked away from the tree and started on back up the hill.

Once I reached the top I turned and took one last look at what lie below. Our willow tree and tire swing hung high on a branch with yellow nylon rope. The same rope used to bind my jeans pocket into a sachet of lavender. The same sachet I carry with me everyday and everywhere I go. Scent of it fades daily but the memories sewn into it are as strong as ever.

I hopped on my bike and headed back down the dirt road towards home. Passing by the cheese vendors and fresh cut flowers for sale that line the road. I passed the handmade furniture that was being sold on the lawn of a local farmstead.

As I rode on; my rusty back fender clanked and I heard the gears shift. As I hit a pothole or bump in the road, my wire basket rattled.

Not a kid anymore but not too old to care about riding around on a clunker of a bike with a basket.

A basket too; attached with the same yellow nylon rope. A rope that tied many things together and a bond between two great friends. My friend and I.

By now you may wonder who my friend and I are exactly. Names will make no difference in this story as it could very well be about any two friends. It was eight years of a great friendship. As I said earlier; a sort of Romeo and Romeo story. It never started that way but things happened for reasons of their own. I cannot explain the why's or how's of being a story of Romeo and Romeo.

It just did.

Simple as that.

-------------------------------------------------------

I continued riding up the dirt road ;picking up speed, kicking up dust and gravel as I gained speed going down the hill. The sun setting to the west of me; a slight breeze blowing my hair into my face.

I rode on until the fork in the road and headed home. It was a Saturday night and I knew my parents were gone out. I settled onto the sofa with a blanket pulled up to my chin watching DVDs until sleep came and familiar dreams followed.

Dreams of our willow

I awoke the following day; Sunday; jumped into the shower and decided on French toast for breakfast. I decided to take a bike ride back to the willow thinking it was unlikely any construction workers would be there.

Passing the flower and meat vendors and the handmade furniture signs along the road that read "No Sunday Sales". I eyed the picnic tables and chairs on the furniture sales lot. Works of art indeed. I could smell the aroma of fresh sausage from a cookhouse. I stood at the front of my bike; straddling the front tire, tightening the yellow nylon rope that attached the basket to the handlebars. When it was fastened securely; I took one last look at the vendor’s wares and carried on.

_______________________________________

I sat on the tire swing and spun in a circular motion almost to the point of making myself dizzy. After the nausea passed I walked about and came to the point my friend and I had set up a two man tent and camped for the night. We had gathered up bottles and cans from the roadside ditches between here and my friends farm. We got a nickel a bottle and a nickel a can so after collecting close to five hundred cans and bottles we had enough to buy the smallest and I mean smallest two man tent.

Being tall and lanky for our ages at the time; our heads and our feet pushed out the ends of the blue and yellow nylon tent. Barely able to fit one; we managed to both get in; although like canned sardines. Even though in close quarters; we did manage to play fight and the likes. No longer boys but not quite men.

Often we would hear people say "Boys; you sure seem to spend a lot of time together" or the more derogatory comments such as "the fag team of wrestling". I have to admit; for me and my friend; words like those and far worse offended us and cut us to our core and often made us cry. We would cry and hug each other, hoping it would make us feel better. It was in those times of clearly and truly caring about one another that we became closer.

I carried on walking. Still; after all these years the memories were almost as fresh as the moments they were made. Soon these woods and all the trees in it would be gone; as would its creatures such as the chipmunk that scurried quickly beneath my feet.

I wondered would the memories disappear as quickly as the overpriced housing would go up. I hoped and I prayed that they wouldn't

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Monday I awoke to the sounds of a far off buzzing. I hoped not! I jumped from my bed and quickly pulled on my jeans; ran out the front door and hopped; barefoot onto the bike. The metal pedals hurt my feet but I did not care. I raced up my road; took the fork in the road and sped on; kicking up the dust behind me. The meat and flower and furniture makers signs just a blur to me. As I got to the hill where the apple tree was I looked down and saw the bright yellow excavation equipment. They were already filling the pond and the buzzing I heard were the saws already cutting down our willow tree. Top branches pruned right back lying at the base of the tree.

"Stop!” I yelled as I ran and stumbled down the hill

"Kid! Get away! Get back! “A worker yelled at me

I ventured on; full of piss and vinegar as though it were a mission.

I stopped at the tree and looked at my feet.

Wisps of willow all around as more continue falling down.

Even though the willow was now only a shadow of its former stature; the memories were all still there in me.

"Let me take some of the branches please" I begged

"Take all that you can carry kid”

I gathered up an armful of branches and carried them toward the hill.

"What do you plan on doing with those kid" the salt and peppered worker asked

"I'll figure something out" I managed to say between sobs

I stumbled up the hill dropping the branches as I cursed out loudly. The construction man heard me and followed me up the hill.

"Here Kid -Tie them up with this”

He wrapped the branches at both ends and in the middle making a carrying strap.

"Thank You” I said meekly and sped back up the dirt road; eyeing the vendors as the construction worked watched me from behind.

----------------------------------------

I drove up the gravel driveway that lead to the furniture maker; eyes red from the flying dust and crying.

There was a woman kneeling in the garden; wearing a straw hat keeping the beating rays of the sun off of her.

"Can I help you?” she asked as she wiped her hands onto her apron.

"I am hoping you can. I have these branches of willow and am hoping you can make me something. Something special."

A truck pulled into the driveway and shut off the ignition and the man stepped out. It was the man from the excavation crew.

"Hey Kid!” he yelled removing his grey battered ball cap

"Could you use more of these?" he asked; pointing to the box of the pickup truck. The truck was loaded up with willow branches.

The woman walked with me to the truck and announced “I am sure that together we can come up with something"

The truck was unloaded at the side of the house. After the woman offered; and he accepted an iced tea; he walked back to the cab of his truck.

"I saved this. Thought maybe it was something you would like to keep"

The man handed me a burlap bag and I untied the knot.

Inside was a slab if the willow trunk.

One carved heart.

Two sets of initials.

I was stunned and excited.

"Give me a week and I will have something for you “the woman said "Now go on home and get some sleep"

--------------------------------------

I didn't have to wait a week. I seen her on my daily bike ride and she beckoned me to go into her workshop.

"What do you think?” she asked me; pointing

A white sheet covered something

"Go on, look!" she advised

I pulled back the sheet and there was the most fantastic piece of furniture or art that I have ever seen. From branches of bent willow she had used all of her creativity and energy and fashioned me a fan back chair. Weaved wisps of willow .Shaped fan back like a heart.

Silent.

Crying.

Uncontrollably now.

It was phenomenal.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my lavender sachet that my friend, soulmate and lover had fashioned. A pocket from my jeans. Lavender. Yellow strands of nylon rope and pure and natural love.

I walked to the chair and held the sachet to the fan back of the chair.

"The final touch" the woman said "I can attach that for you"

With fishing line she attached the sachet to the woven branches of the willow.

I stepped back.

"Thank you so much! How much do I owe you" I asked

"Seeing you pleased is thanks enough. Now about getting it home there is no way you can carry that home on your bike”

I gently put the chair into the van and lifted my bike into it as well while the woman walked to the house. I waited in the passenger seat and when she returned she handed me a garbage bag.

"I've seen your bike and thought maybe you would like this” she said

I opened the bag and inside was a willow basket she had lovingly made for me.

"Your bike basket has seen better days” she said

I was lost for words but my eyes and tears conveyed to her all that I felt.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I know why the willow weeps

And within its branches; secrets keep

Initials carved in a wooden heart

A friendship here did start

Years passed and we grew near

Hiding here out of fear

A love did bloom much like the willow

I still shed tears upon my pillow

I sit upon a willow chair; made from that memorable tree

Dear unnamed friend of mine; I hope that you are truly free

Resting where the willow stood

----------------------------------------

The chair rests on my veranda still barely showing signs of weathering. I sit and reflect on all that we had and continue to hold in my heart; but my body grows weary and old. I too shall be gone from this earth; such as my friend whose spirit is at the willows; perhaps aged a bit before my time. Yet; through it all I know why the willow weeps and yet; whose branches continue to support me in my final days

My old journal lies on the weathered patio; stained by rain and sun; pages tattered at the edges as I lounge on that great chair made from the strong and mighty Willow. Like the tree in the meadow; my body is no more yet I still have the story to tell. As limber and delicate as the wisps of willow are; so too is the human spirit. Winds may blow in our faces; posing an obstacle or torrential rains may slow our pace; yet the strong human spirit can overcome; if we allow ourselves to permit it

---------------------------------------------------------

Why The Willow Weeps- The Finale

As I started down the hill;I took notice of a sign that read"Future Site of detached and semi-detached homes". I continue on down the hill;keeping my eyes on the plywood sign and the willow that stood in ever grand style just to the left of the sign.

Ravelling yellow rope strung through an old tire blowing slightly in the breeze. As I neared closer to the tire,a bird flitted from the tire and rested atop the willow;keeping an ever present gaze on me.

I circled around the tree looking at the initials carved in a heart at the base of the tree. The initials now had a scarred look them as the growth of bark had begun to take over.

"Hey There !" a loud voice boomed from behind me "This is private property"

"I don't see a private property sign" I replied

"Just about to post it" the man said

"Machinery moves in tomorrow. I suggest you take one last look around here; as in a few months you will not recognize the place" the burly man stated

My jaw dropped open. For years I have come to this spot on my own and with a friend. A friend like no other before him or since him.

----------------------------------------------

I wondered about;taking in the final views of not just the willow tree and the swing. I ventured up the hill and sat beneathe the apple tree looking down into the fields of lavender as its scent blew towards me. Just as the willow does weep;I weep. As I sit with my back against the bark of the apple tree;my eyes grow heavy ;yet I see the sun shine through my eyelids. Soon I am being pushed on the tire swing;my bare feet being tickled by the branches of the willow.

"Push me harder! Push me faster ! Push me higher ! "I hear myself shout through the boisterous laughter. The sun blinds me as I go higher;paralell to the ground.

Slowly I reach the ground,my feet kicking up a cloud of dust . We switched positions;my friend taking the swing and I pushing with all my might. My friend weighed a bit less than me ;so in no time at all his legs pushed through the foliage of the willow.

"Whoa ! Not so high"he yelled;looking back towards the ground at me.

The swing slowed to a stop and we rested against the willow;feeling the outline of the carved heart with our initials with our fingers.

"How many years have we been coming here?" I asked as I looked at my friend. He was pulling his hair down onto his forehead.

"Seven or eight , nine at the most" he replied

I remember meeting him one day when my bike had got a flat tire riding on the side of the country road. I figured I had run over a bottle;tossed from a moving car. My friend rode along with his Dad early in the mornings;before school delivering the rural mail. The morning I had the flat tire had been a rainy morning,complete with lightning. I had taken shelter just off the edge of the road under a mighty oak tree;my red CCM bike at the side of the road.

The mail truck pulled to a mail box just in front of me.

"are you crazy ?! Standing under a tree in a raging storm" yelled the boy from the passenger window of the pickup truck

"I have a flat tire" I yelled up the small embankment

"You will have more to worry about than a flat tire if you continue to stand under that tree"

The truck door opened and the boy jumped out;grabbed my bike and threw it in the back of the truck.

"Get In ! We can fix your bike at my place" he shouted

I jumped in and shut the door.

After finishing up the mail run we pulled up to a galvanized gate at a farm and drove up the drive.We drove into the barn and the boy lifted my bike off the truck and set it on the floor of the barn.

-------------------------------------------

After a half hour or so my bike was fixed. My new friend handed me a small bike repair kit and I was on my way "

"See you around Lucky ! " he called to me as I walked my bike out of the barn.

I really figure I was lucky that morning . At just after five in the morning there are not many vehicles on the road and I almost became a statistic to lightning strikes.I was defintely lucky as I had met a great friend.

Through resting against the apple tree I could hear the drone of the powerlines overhead;yet I drifted between sleep and being semi alert to my surroundings.

----------------------

When my eyes opened;sun blinding me I saw the outline of the construction worker.

"You had better head on out and be on your way" Then his ouline was gone

I stretched my arms above me and yawned;stood up and walked away from the tree and started on back up the hill.

Once I reached the top I turned and took one last look at what lie below. Our willow tree and tire swing hung high on a branch with yellow nylon rope. The same rope used to bind my jeans pocket into a sachetof lavender. The same sachet I carry with me everyday and everywhere I go. Scent of it fades daily but the memories sewn into it are as strong as ever.

I hopped on my bike and headed back down the dirt road towards home. Passing by the cheese vendors and fresh cut flowers for sale that line the road . I passed the handmade furniture that was being sold on the lawn of a local farmstead.

As I rode on;my rusty back fender clanked and I heard the gears shift. As I hit a pothole or bump in the road ,my wire basket rattled.

Not a kid anymore but not too old to care about riding around on a clunker of a bike with a basket.

A basket too;attached with the same yellow nylon rope. A rope that tied many things together and a bond between two great friends. My friend and I .

It just did.

Simple as that.

-------------------------------------------------------

I continued riding up the dirt road ;picking up speed,kicking up dust and gravel as I gained speed going down the hill. The sun setting to the west of me;a slight breeze blowining my hair into my face.

Dreams of our willow

I awoke the following day; Sunday;jumped into the shower and decided on french toast for breakfast. I decided to take a bike ride back to the willow thinking it was unlikely any construction workers would be there.

Passing the flower and meat vendors and the handmade furniture signs along the road that read "No Sunday Sales". I eyed the picnic tables and chairs on the furniture sales lot. Works of art indeed. I could smell the aroma of fresh sausage from a cookhouse. I stood at the front of mmy bike;straddling the front tire ,tightening the yellow nylon rope that attached the basket to the handlebars. When it was fastened securely; I took one last look at the vendors wares and carried on.

_______________________________________

Being tall and lanky for our ages at the time;our heads and our feet pushed out the ends of the blue and yellow nylon tent. Barely able to fit one;we managed to both get in;although like canned sardines. Even though in close quarters we did manage to play fight and the likes. No longer boys but not quite men.

Often we would hear people say "Boys; you sure seem to spend alot of time together" or the more derogatory comments such as "the fag team of wrestling". I have to admit;for myself and my friend;words like those and far worse offended us and cut us to our core and often made us cry. We would cry and hug each other,hoping it would make us feel better. It was in those times of clearly and truly caring about one another that we became closer.

I carried on walking. Still ; after all these years the memories were almost as fresh as the moments they were made. Soon this woods and all the trees in it would be gone ; as would its creatures such as the chipmunk who scurried quickly beneathe my feet.

I wondered would the memories dissappear as quickly as the overpriced housing would go up. I hoped and I prayed that they wouldn't

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Monday I awoke to the sounds of a far off buzzing. I hoped not ! I jumped from my bed and quickly pulled on my jeans ;ran out the front door and hopped;barefeet onto the bike. The metal pedals hurt my feet but I did not care. I raced up up my road ;took the fork in the road and sped on;kicking up the dust behind me. The meat and flower and furniture makers signs just a blur to me. As I got to the hill where the apple tree was I looked down and saw the bright yellow excavation equipment. They were already filling the pond and the buzzing I heard were the saws already cutting down our willow tree. Top branches pruned right back laying at the base of the tree.

"Stop ! " I yelled as I ran and stumbed down the hill

"Kid ! Get away ! Get back ! " a worked yelled at me

I ventured on;full of piss and vinegar as though it were a mission .

I stopped at the tree and looked at my feet.

Wisps of willow all around as more continue falling down.

Even though the willow was now only a shadow of its former stature;the memories were all still there in me.

"Let me take some of the branches please" I begged

"Take all that you can carry kid "

I gathered up an armful of branches and carried them toward the hill.

"What do you plan on doing with those kid" the salt and peppered worker asked

"I'll figure something out" I managed to say between sobs

I stumbled up the hill dropping the branches as I cursed out loudly. The construction man heard me and followed me up the hill.

"Here Kid -Tie them up with this "

He wrapped the branches at both ends and in the middle making a carrying strap.

"Thank You " I said meekly and sped back up the dirt road ;eyeing the vendors as the construction worked watched me fro behind.

----------------------------------------

I drove up the gravel driveway that lead to the furniture maker; eyes red from the flying dust and crying.

There was a woman kneeling in the garden ;wearing a straw hat keeping the beating rays of the sun off of her.

"Can I help you ? " she asked as she wiped her hands onto her apron.

"I am hoping you can. I have these branches of willow and am hoping you can make me something. Something special."

A truck pulled into the driveway and shut off the ignition and the man stepped out. It was the man from the excavation crew.

"Hey Kid ! " he yelled removing his grey battered ball cap

"Could you use more of these ?" he asked ; pointing to the box of the pickup truck. The truck was loaded up with willow branches.

The woman walked with me to the truck and announced " I am sure that together we can coe up with something"

The truck was unloaded at the side of the house. After the woman offered;and he accepted an iced tea;he walked back to the cab of his truck.

"I saved this. Thought maybe it was something you would like to keep"

The man handed me a burlap bag and I untied the knot.

Inside was a slab if the willow trunk.

One carved heart.

Two sets of initials.

I was stunned and excited.

"Give me a week and I will have something for you " the woman said "Now go on home and get some sleep"

--------------------------------------

I didn't have to wait a week. I seen her on my daily bike ride and she beckoned me to go into her workshop.

"What do you think?"she asked me;pointing

A white sheet covered something

"Go on , look !" she advised

I pulled back the sheet and there was the most fantastic piece of furniture or art that I have ever seen. From branches of bent willow whe had used all of her creativity and energy and fashioned me a fanback chair. Weaved wisps of willow .Shaped fanback like a heart.

Silent.

Crying.

Uncontrolably now.

It was phenomenal.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my lavender sachet that my friend,soulmate and lover had fashioned. A pocket from my jeans . Lavender. Yellow strands of nylon rope and pure and natural love.

I walked to the chair and held the sachet to the fanback of the chair.

"The final touch" the woman said "I can attach that for you"

With fishing line she attached the sachet to the weaved branches of the willow.

I stepped back.

"Thank you so much ! How much do I owe you" I asked

"Seeing you pleased is thanks enough. Now about getting it home There is no way you can carry that home on your bike "

I gently put the chair into the van and lifted my bike into it as well while the woman walked to the house. I waited in the passenger seat and when she returned she handed me a garbage bag .

"I've seen your bike and thought maybe you would like this " she said

I opened the bag and inside was a willow basket she had lovingly made for me.

"Your bike basket has seen better days " she said

I was lost for words but my eyes and tears conveyed to her all that i felt.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I know why the willow weeps

and within its branches ;secrets keep

Initials carved in a wooden heart

A friendship here did start

Years passed and we grew near

Hiding here out of fear

A love did bloom much like the willow

I still shed tears upon my pillow

I sit upon a willow chair;made from that memorable tree

Dear unnamed friend of mine;I hope that you are truly free

Resting where the willow stood

----------------------------------------

The chair rests on my veranda still barely showing signs of weathering. I sit and reflect on all that we had and continue to hold in my heart ;but my body grows weary and old. I too shall be gone from this earth;such as my friend who's spirit is at the willows; perhaps aged a bit before my time. Yet; through it all I know why the willow weeps and yet;whose branches continue to support me in my final days

…………onward

The weather worn cedar rail fence lined both sides of the road all the way to the house.

The car stopped as the dust settled below its tires. The veranda,or porch as he called it,wrapped around the front of the house and the easterly side.

Creak! Creak! Creak! The steps went as he walked up them to the porch;and stopped hands on hips.

“Certainly is a fixer upper. Not much to look at “ he says;rubbing two fingers on his chin.

Long ago dead plants hang in white plastic hangers from rusty hooks;planters twirling about in the breeze.

He walks across the porch to the east side of the house and eyes the surrounding landscape. Green hills and valleys. Gentle stream.

“Hmmm. Maybe there is potential” he says; hands on his brow;blocking the sun.

He eyes an old abandoned chair and settles gently into it; unsure of its workmanship or safety factor. He eases into it and leans back;rocking gently.

This side of the porch seems to be more weathered than the front.

Weathered by rain and the hot rays of the sun. Portions of the wooden planks chewed by termites. Nails protruding. Wooden planks askew.

He rocks in the chair for awhile . His cell phone rings and he answers it;rising then pacing the floor.

“The main house is a mess but the property is nothing less than amazing. I think we should jump at this opportunity”

A few more words are exchanged and the call ends.

He walks towards the chair and one of the floor slats come loose;almost tripping him.

Bending down to replace it;he eyes something in the spot where the plank was.

A non descript spiral bound notebook.

Mildew stained.

He reads the cover and settles once again into the chair.

A car horn startles him and he jumps. He had drifted off to sleep. As he jumps from the chair; the notebook falls to the porch floor. He picks it up and tosses it onto the chair.

After a walkabout of the house and property once again he returns to the chair and opens the book.

“The rope that was….” He starts to read through its mildew stained pages. Written on lined journal paper ;sometimes in pen and at other times in pencil. Some sentences scratched out but re-written the same. Doodles of branches of willow,tire swings,apple trees and oh so many flowers.

Badly drawn pictures of faces;some with tears and some smiling. Some crude pictures of two figures holding hands-almost sticklike .

He reads a bit more then sets the book on the floor beside him as he rises from the chair.

He walks to the wooden door with the rusted and torn screen and pushes it open. A stream of light passes through the window from the suns rays illuminating years of dust. The stream of light ends. A photo of two young men. One pushing the other on a tire swing.

He walks about the living room eyeing the surroundings. A pine rocker and a grey brocade velvet sofa. A green vinyl ottoman. A fireplace and an oak table stained by water rings left from a beverage glass.

Meager furnishings.

As he walks into the kitchen he cannot help but see the matching avocado green stove and refrigerator. Grease and grime covered. No range hood.

He walks up the fourteen steps to the upper level.

Stairs covered in a well worn low pile carpet of beige.

Old muddy footprints.

The railing is loose in his hand.

The first room is a bedroom. Very basic. A single bed. Un made. A four drawer unfinished pine dresser and just a single night stand with a small brass lamp. A lamp worn in places;now green. Beige walls. Drab. Yet brightened up with pictures on all the walls. Pictures of flowers;lavender he thinks.

Pictures of hills and valleys and one picture; a collage of Polaroid photos. Photos of the two same people as he had seen downstairs in the living room. The two in the pictures. Smiles. Tears. One with both young men making goofy faces;tongues protruding.

Another photo on the dresser. This one; of one of the boys sleeping resting against a tree as the wisps of willow tree provide natures protection from the sun.

He is curious and wonders if everything was left behind in the house. He pulls the top drawer open and it squeaks and stalls. He jiggles it and opens it slowly.

A few tee shirts. A pair of jeans and a stack of folded papers tied with a piece of yellow nylon thread. He gets a scent of lavender. A satchet of potpourri? Yes. Under the stack of paper lies a denim swatch;sewn closed by yellow thread. He places the letters back in the drawer and goes back down the stairs and back to the porch. He settles into the chair once again and continues to read.

Sleep comes. The book falls to the floor;pages open. His cell phone rings and vibrates;waking him.

“Hello”

“Yes, I have had some new ideas for the development and am weighing the options and the viability of each. I will definitely have a plan by weeks end” he says into the phone.

“Talk to you then” he replies and ends the call

He had something on his mind. Something he could not quite shake. The journal. The stack of paper wrapped in that same yellow thread and the sachet of lavender wrapped in that same yellow thread. The yellow rope talked about in the journal. The threads taken from that same rope. Threads that tied the whole story together. He coulndn’t shake the feeling that the journal,the sachet,the stack of papers and the pictures in the house were all part of the same story.

Now he was more curious. He went back up to the bedroom and opened the top drawer;removed the stack of papers and sat on the edge of the bed.

He untied the yellow thread and leafed through the pages. They were all dated. Oldest to newest. He reads aloud.

“I love coming here and waiting until I see you speeding down the hill on your bike. You back pedal and brake to a halt with the dust clouding up around you and me sitting below the tree. We both laugh. Hysterically. I wait here most days for you after school and we both bike here together on weekends. Our place where we can be ourselves. You know me like no other.

“They’re just kids” they say “they don’t know what they want”

I may be young but I know what I want. Wait ! Not what I want. What I need too. I already have a feeling its destined to be. Destiny ? or will others have it their way.”

Second letter dated a few weeks later:

“I can’t help but laugh just thinking of seeing you in a slump on the ground when the rope on the tire swing snapped. Your body was contorted like a human pretzel. At times it wasn’t funny;I thought you were hurt. I never wanted to see you get hurt and I know you never want to see me get hurt. We have been both so hurt in our short lives. I am only 16 and you are 17 but w’ve been through a lotbut we are here for each other. Pinky swear.”

His hands shake as he reads the pages of paper. He fingers through the pages and randomly stops; caught off guard by a doodle at the top right corner of the page. Roughly drawn but a very touching doodle. A tire swing. One sitting in the swing. One pushing.Two people. Both crying.

He sits at the edge of the bed and pulls one more sheet out of the pile and reads it.

“402 weekday afternoon visits to our spot. 50 weekends. That is how many times that I have counted that we’ve met there. All but two weekends . One I went to visit my uncle and the other you went to see your grandparents. To me;those were very long weekends. When we came back,you seemed different. You told me your grandma said”you may be going through a phase and it will pass. Hormones will settle and your head would be alright again;soon enough”

I hated your grandma for saying that to you;even though I have never met her. I hate her. I may be only sixteen but I know what love is for me. Love to me is you. Love to me is us. It’s us. No one can tell us anything else. Love is different to different people. I am writing this to you as I sit in the tire swing;kicking my feet ever so slightly in the bone dry soil. You are resting your back on the trunk of the tree carving a piece of wood with a pocket knife. I have one. The same. We bought them together on a bike ride into town to the hardware store. The same knife we used to carve the heart into the tree. I used my knife to carve your initials and you used yours to carve mine.

The sun is setting so we better head back home.

He moves slightly on the bed. One single tear on his cheek. Unsure just yet what to make of what he is reading. Is it like the grandma said “…just a phase” or a love so deep that only those two involved could understand. He would soon find out. He continued to read.

“I didn’t get a response to my last letter to you. Maybe its because I said I hate your grandma. I said that out of anger and because I know her words hurt you. The last few times we have been to the Willows have been quiet. We haven’t even been on the swing. I love when I sit in the tire swing with you standing on it; holding the rope. You lean backwards and the tire moves just a bit.

Your grandma reminds me of my own Mom. She only hears what she will allow herself to hear. She only acknowledges what is right by her. I think a lot of people do that. Love? When is love wrong? My Mom only acknowledges the truth as what she perceives to be the truth. My mom only refers to you as “that boy” or “your friend” She knows your name but refuses to call you by it. I am pretty sure she knows how I feel about you.but again she will not acknowledge it. I have even tried telling her but when I did’all I got was “its getting late. I have to get to bed and I think that boy should be getting home”

I wonder if it would be different if my Dad were around. I am not even sure who he is. Mom never talks about him. You ; on the other hand have a Dad around even though you don’t talk about him or your Mom much. I only heard your Dad say one thing that upset me.” In this life you can be whoever you want to be,who you choose to be…..just not gay” This was when we were choosing courses for the coming school year. You were going into twelth grade. I wanted to question him on his statement but you rolled your eyes at me so I didn’t.

“A whoever is not gay nor is gay a choice” Being gat is not who I am;nor who you are. I don’t even think we’ve ever said “I Think I am gay” Its not what I think I may be. Its that I know I love you. Only you and I know how close we really are. No one else needs to know how close we have been. Its getting late. I’ll see you tomorrow hopefully.

P.S I wonder if you keep all my letters or throw them out. I keep all of yours. Xoxo

He rises from the bed;leaving the letters he has read beside him and picks up the remaining ones and heads down the stairs,through the living room and out onto the porch. He has figured out the journal on the chair beside him and the letters are all part and parcel of one. What else will figure into it all.

On the porch he picks up the journal and continues to read it. Its almost overwhelming to him. He feels as if he has been dragged into the story and cannot quite get out. Somehow the journal and the letters have consumed him and is not quite sure how he should feel.

Sitting on the chair;rocking,he wonders if indeed the other boy in the story did indeed keep the letters. He felt for the boy in the story;for he too had grown up without knowing his father.

He reads for awhile until he hears his stomach rumble. He lifts himself from the chair;grabs his keys from his pocket and drives into town for something to eat.

The sky was burnt orange and golden yellow; its rays painting the windows on the house like stained glass. The weather vane on the barn spinning in the breeze,creaking. The chair on the porch.Silent. The windows on the upper level reflecting the light of the sun. The screen door slams loudly as a gust of wind comes.

Lights. Dim at first,came up the driveway. He was back. Shutting off the ignition heopens the car door with one hand and his phone in the other. “I’ll have my decision tomorrow afternoon. I am spending the night here. I feel inspired here” He ends the call and takes a duffle bag from the trunk of his car and carried it into the house;up the stairs and into the bedroom. He emptied the contents into the drawers below the one he had found the letters. He went into the bathroom down the hall and cleans up for the night. The floor boards squeak as he heads back to the bedroom.

Bang ! Bang! Bang! Came an almost constant banging. It had come from another room. A room he had not even looked in. A room forgotten because he could not forget the letters he had found in the other room. A window shutter on the outside of the room window was banging on the outside of the house. Unable to fix it; he pulls the top of the shutter and it falls to the ground below.

No bed. Just a single mattress on the floor. One white end table. Three candles. In the darkest corner of the room;a three drawer dresser.Black. A well worn throw rug. One photo framed.One boy in the photo. Not two. One man crying a single tear.

Opening the drawers of the dresser he inspects the contents. Top drawer. A pocket knife. A key ring full of keys. Sparse. Second drawer. A pair of sneakers. A pair of jeans with one rear pocket missing and a length of yellow nylon rope. Bottom drawer. Stems of long ago dead flowers;almost smoky grey and a large manila envelope fastened shut with a paper clip. He removes the paper clip and empties the contents onto the dresser top. Paper. More letters. Yet; different hand writing. He lifts the top one and reads aloud.

“I love going there too. Racing my rusty bike down the hill,slamming my brakes on as you try to avoid the cloud of dust. I can’t seem to pack my school stuff up quickly enough to get here. It is the only place we can be who we are;not what others want or expect us to be. I cannot say for sure if it is destiny that we be together. I can say for sure that I love you and am loving all of what we do”

The letters were responses. He read another

“Even though you can be an ass laughing at me hysterically; I love you ! I never want to see you hurt either but I know it hurts us both that others just don’t understand what we have. What we know we have. Yes; I am seventeen but I am not stupid. I know this is love and I know it is you that I love. Pinky swear.

Third letter:

I have to admit that I was hurt by your letter telling me that you hate my grandma. Grandma is an old soul like so many others before her and I am sure after her. She doesn’t understand. Maybe she doesn’t want to understand. You can’t hate her. Hate only brings hate. People hate us and what we have because they don’t agree or they don’t just want to understand what we have. Anyway, I have a lot of homework to catch up on. I will see you tomorrow but I love you today”

He picks up the stack of newly discovered letters and brings them to the other bedroom. Here; he sorts and puts them in order as best as he can. He turns on the bedside lamp and leafs through;continuing to reads where he left off.

Fourth letter:

You are so right when you say being “gay” is not a choice. I don’t thinke either of us have used that word. It’s not like other people woke up one morning and say “I have something to get off my chest. I think I’m straight” Who the hell has ever said that ?! I’m not even sure why a person has to say their sexual preference . To me; it’s not sexual preference. Only us two know about that. No one else needs to know. So what ! I love you and you love me. When I am done school I hope to be a social worker. When people ask me I will say I am a social worker; not a gay social worker. The more I think about it; I don’t think “being gay” is our problem. It’s others problem. They just want to make it our problem. Even though your Mom has a good idea of what is going on;I have heard her say to you “Once you are all done with your fun and games and finished school;you will make me a grandchild”.

Last Friday when we biked home from the willow we had stones thrown at us and tree branches thrown through our bike tires. Some of the boys from school have followed us there ; to hide in trees,wait and see if we did anything out of the ordinary. Ordinary ? Normal? Is it normal to sit in a tress and be voyeurs to wait and watch ? No! Other than seeing us push each other on the swing or wander about they wouldn’t have seen anything. Is the name calling,rock throwing and watching us worth it? Yes!

I keep all your letters. They are in my night stand right beside my bed . The bed I sleep in and dream of you every night. Goodnight XOXO

He felt a bit overwhelmed by what he was reading before his eyes. He was touched. The breeze blew in the window. Curtains rustled and moved slightly. He watched the glow of the moon and the shimmer of the stars. Sleep came and dreams soon followed.

Upon waking the dream ends ; not remembering what he had dreamed. The letters. Back to the letters. He reads through them one at a time. Sequential order as far as he can make out.

“ I know it has been awhile since we have both gone to the willows. School finals,graduation plans and working part time. I still think of you just as much;maybe more. One day when all of this settles;we will get back there. When we are old and tired and grey around the temples;we will likely be there. When we can be who we are meant to be and truly are. I will pop this letter in your mail box on the way home from work around eight tonight. I love you.

The response….

“I cannot believe you left that letter in my mailbox ! My Mom found it. My Mom read it. Now she knows everything. I am not even sure how I should feel. You broke the trust. Relieved? My head is spinning. She has even asked the neighbours daughter to “woo me” Who uses that word anymore ? I cannot be wooed but my Mom is determined I can be.

“You have never been with a girl. How do you know you won’t like her?” she asked

I just know I won’t be wooed by her. I know who I am and my Mom can’t change me. I need to cool off. Check your mailbox !

Response-----

“I am sorry I upset you. After all of the time that we have been together I didn’t know it was a big deal. I didn’t think it was a secret ! Are you ashamed of you or us? I had no issue with you leaving your letter in my mailbox. Would it kill you to just take that girl to see a movie? It’s a movie. Not a commitment. I have gone to movies with girls.

Response---

“are you trying to push me away?! After this letter;if you want to talk to me;meet me at the willows.

Short and abrupt. There was a gap in the letters and between them. A huge gap. Had they stopped going to the willows or writing to one another.

Next letter..

It has been so long since we have written. Even longer since we have gone to the willows. We are both not even sure what happened. Maybe a few things. Every night after work I would drive to the willows;yes I have a car now. I would park at the crest of the hill and like we always did; I would roll down the hill. Right away I would go to the tire swing and feel around inside for a letter you had written. That night there was none. There were no letters for many nights. My heart sank”

In response..

“I must have just missed you the last time we went to the willows. It all looks the same as when we were young kids. The rope is raveling a bit and the tree is much bigger it seems. The initials we carved into it are looking scarred. As long as I have breathe in my lungs and my heart beats;I love you. We may have both have grown up but I will never grew out of loving you. I will never.

That was the end of the letters. His jaw dropped . Tears in his eyes. Maybe the journal would tell more. Finality.

After breakfast he carried his coffee and settled into the chair on the porch;setting the coffee down beside him. It was raining slightly and a lone sparrow eyed the man from his perch high atop a willow tree. A slight breeze blew through the branches;rustling them gently.

The man leafed through the journal;started reading from where he had left off. He read about the boys adventures skipping stones,rolling down the grassy hills,camping in the woods and endless fun on the tire swing. He read of love. A love only the two could understand. A pure and real love.

The Willows. Cut off from “the real world” A place called sanity. No harsh words from Grandma or Mom. Two alone but; yet as one. Flipping through the journal;a paper, folded in quarters falls from the book and teeters on the rim of the coffee cup. He picks it up and unfolds it. A letter unsent. Undated. A long letter. Both sides of the paper.

“What happened to us ? I had been going to the willows every night to see if you left me any letters. When I stuck my hand into the tire; all that were there were other letters left for you. Not one from you. For weeks which soon turned into months I went there. I went to your house but was always given the same answer “he’s not home!” Your Mom was very short with me ;slamming the door quickly behind me. We were constantly together for close to four years. What happened to us? I am not giving up on us-rebuilding what we had. Did someone get to you? Did someone tell you that our love was wrong?

The letter continued but in pencil. One letter but written on a different date.

“still no letters for me at the swing. I went to your house. Instead of the “ He’s not home”: your Mom said “He’s not here anymore. He has gone off to college to make a life for himself. Something that you should do too…and he has a girlfriend..something you need too” I went back to the swing later that night hoping you had finally left me a letter. There was,plus all of the others you gave me. After reading the newest letter I was hurt and more confused than ever; so I tore it into hundreds of pieces and let the wind carry it off. Your words in that letter will forever be ingrained in me. “ I love you more than I ever could think possible but our love doesn’t cut it in the “real world” . “real world?” Our love is more real yet we cannot express it publicly. You may think it’s a cop-out that I’ve gone off to college without a goodbye. I was hoping to have one last swing on our tire but I knew that if I did; I couldn’t leave.I couldn’t stand to walk back up that hill and see you crying or asking me “please don’t go!” It has to be this way for my own sanity. Maybe I am not being true to myself or our love but I’ll go ballistic if I cannot stay here and be with you fully. I am sorry for this but not one bit sorry for what we had;what I hope you still feel. Everything is here. Our willows ! “

In response:

There is really no point in leaving you this letter as I know you are gone but will never be completely gone. Forever in my heart. Forever in my soul. Forever in my being. For now; I am an empty shell but hopefully my shell will fill full of life again.

The man sighed; putting his hands behind his head and stretched his neck backwards. Once again he cried but continued once again reading the journal;sipping his coffee ,now cold. He sat there for hours;rain replaced by sunshine. The sparrow remained on its perch high above the willow tree singing. His reading became interrupted by his phone vibrating. After a few minutes talking on the phone he says “What I have in mind for the property will blow your mind. And the house stays.”

The chair creaked on the floor boards. The chair made for the ones in the journal and letters. The chair made from wisps of willow. The chair as a memorial to love the two shared in life . The Willows ;where one night;one went to the willows never to return. The house.The chair. The chair where the man who read the letters sat; thinking..inspired by all he took in. Inspired by love. Inspired by love he would build.

Months later the gates opened.Rustic cedar rails lined the laneway up to the house; now a campground cafeteria.

“welcome ALL to Whispering Willows” on a sign atop the house.

Rope hammocks were strung from tree to tree. Tire swings tied to willow branches with yellow rope. Tents and campers alike. Inside the office/cafeteria; above the door hung the willow chair. A poem. A new author. It was written by the man who had build this place with hammers and nails and most important of all; love. Love build this place.

“I now know why the willow smiles

People come from miles and miles

They camp and enjoy whiling away the hours

Amid rays of sunshine and rain filled showers”

The journal and letters tucked safely away. No longer does the willow weep, but branches blow gently in the breezes;whispering .. LIVE YOUR LIFE AS YOU PLEASE

xo Joe

ink smeared thoughts

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

It has been a while

Monday, March 19, 2012

Why The Willow Weeps