I sit outside and gaze at a spectacular tree in the front yard of my oldest friend's former house. It is a grand sight, an enormous old thing with great, expansive branches. I sit and I watch cascading beams of sunlight fall through its many leaves. I sit and I think back to when I would climb the long branches, sometimes spending an entire day held in its arms. There I would pass the time with my friend, feeling like I belonged, feeling happy.
I sit and I think back to when my imagination was not used for the sinister purpose of blocking memories from my mind, but to make everything magical. And when magical thinking meant innocent fantasies and dreams instead of desperate scenes of do-overs that I wantwantwant! with all my heart. I sit and I remember when everything I felt was genuine and nothing I did needed a purpose and the only thing that mattered was having fun. And it was so easy to be me because there was only me.
I sit and remember, and also I realize that I will never climb that tree again. I will never sit, supported by the aged branches, talking or not talking to my friend and feeling so complete. While I am not strictly okay with that, I accept it for what it is. Probably I have forgotten how to, anyway. Things will never be as easy as they were.
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