The Weeping Willow by Annmarie Ferry

http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/10/prompt-5.html

Here I stand, firmly rooted in the backyard of a modest suburban Michigan home.  The large yard slopes from the deep red siding ranch toward my spot and flattens out toward the small patch of woods that separates the property from the neighbor’s domain. I have the distinct honor of being the main attraction of the yard, and I cherish that privilege.  Yet, I cannot help but feel alone, long forgotten by the family who left the frigid winters for sunnier skies in Florida.

"One…two…three! Ready or not, here I come!" The curly haired girl pushed off of my trunk, leaving the canopy of shade to begin the seek part of the game with her two little sisters. I watched her shield her eyes against the glare of the summer sun as she began her search.  She’d have to venture to the front part of the yard, for there were no real hiding spaces in the backyard.  The jungle gym provided no shelter with its slim metal bars, and the small vegetable garden didn’t yield anything tall enough to crouch behind. Besides, their mother would be furious if they trampled through her well-tended rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, squash, and peppers.

“Ha! I found you!” I heard her giggly shout as she discovered the youngest sister.  She always went to the same place: the giant trio of pine trees that grew oddly together in the right corner of the front yard.

The two held hands as they combed the rest of the yard for the middle sister. She was the sneaky one, always elusive. They knew she wouldn’t be in the house. Once they were out for the day, out is where they stayed until their mother called them in for lunch, and then again for dinner.

The modest porch leading up to the front door wasn’t a good spot to hide since its steps were made of cement and butted right up to the house. But, the full shrubs on either side offered some shelter. They looked at each other as if to say, “We got her now!” and took off running, splitting up to ambush their victim.

But, the shrubs weren’t hiding their sister. Scratching her head, the oldest motioned to the youngest to follow her to the garage. She had to be in the garage.  They tiptoed in, spotting her white, Stride Rite shoe just peeking out behind the red wagon that had been strategically flipped onto its side.

“Got ya!!!” I heard them yell out in unison.

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

The braided rope was flung over one of my sturdy branches. I winced as the father yanked hard to pull the rope to an even length so he could tie it around a tire. He yanked again; making sure it was secured enough to hold the weight of the girls.

     They stood on the outskirts, watching anxiously as he installed their very first tire swing. The jungle gym swing had lost its appeal long ago, so this was a welcome addition.

Before he could complete the words, “It’s ready,” the girls were pushing and shoving to get first dibs on the wheel of fun. He reminded them to be nice as he put the smallest on top and let the middle one climb through to take her seat in the center. The oldest puffed out her cheeks in disappointment as tears welled up in her eyes. Seeing this, he gave her the special job of helping him push her little sisters. She, he assured her, would get to ride solo on the next round. Suddenly, having to wait didn’t seem so bad.

As they were pushed and twirled in all directions, the girls squealed in delight, their heads flung back, wispy hair flying into their faces, stomachs doing flip flops as they spun at dizzying speeds until they begged to stop.

Later, the older one snuck out to the backyard swing on her own. She didn’t really enjoy the rush of flying and spinning, preferring instead to push off with her own two feet, gently rocking as she enjoyed the sunlight filtering through the slender leaves dressing my ground-sweeping branches.

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

The crisp, autumn air signals the return of school, just as my brilliant green turns to yellow.  Even though I am lonely for long stretches of the day, I brighten as I hear the girls and their friends approaching on their short trek home.

They rush through the sliding glass door of the sunken family room, backpacks shed, school dresses abandoned for play clothes, running toward me to have their after-school “tea” party. As they slurp down the Kool-Aid flavor de jour, they play grown up, sharing secret hopes and dreams for the future. Not once does it dawn on any of them that those futures will create rifts among them, some merely logistical, others philosophical. I won’t interrupt their optimistic musings with this knowledge. I will allow them to be little girls, to delight in their fantasies.

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

 
     In winter, I am forgotten for the comfort of hot cider, warm cocoa, and the burning fire indoors.  When they do venture outdoors at the insistence of their mother, they don’t even glance my way. Instead they play house in the igloo their father built for them or build snow people families until the tiny bit of exposed flesh begins to sting from the cold wind.

I watch over them, hoping they will sense my longing for their company, silently calling out to them to run circles around my large trunk. But, the journey through the deep snow in their heavy boots and constricting snowsuits must be too tedious.

I feel isolated, as gloomy as the sunless sky, dulling the mood with its constant grayness.

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

The new owners have grown children and haven’t yet been blessed with grandchildren.  The jungle gym was torn out the day after they moved in, the weakening rope of the tire swing cut, the whole lot tossed out with the trash.They have replaced it with a small wrought iron table and chairs where they enjoy their coffee on pleasant mornings and on occasion, a light mid-day meal.

There is no infectious giggling, no talk of what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up. Instead, they reminisce, never tiring of re-living past memories and wallowing in nostalgia. Begrudgingly, I bless them with my shade and try to delight in their willingness to tolerate their mundance existence, lives winding down into an acceptance of what will be.

     But, the wind carries the whispers of past laughter and drums up the memories of those three little sisters sharing secret wishes, making me long for the past.

And I weep.