just another tree

There is a spot of ground out next to that young maple where you can feel the memories hanging onto the air. Although this year it has new leaves and bark, although this year the grass is fresh and not yet weighed down by feet as it is by autumn, although the breeze swiftly carries away each word as you utter them, making you doubt they were ever said at all, although this spot looks new each year, it feels old. Phantasms of happenings that occurred in the spot linger, unable to be blown away by the wind. The leaves seem to whisper the stories of the past; a young woman, come to hear what the earth could tell her while she sits in the shade, forgotten book on her lap. A first kiss, stolen by a shy boy from an even shyer girl. A small fort owned by squealing kids daring each other up the soft, new branches. A broken heart, coming to find comfort in the soothing stir of the wind in the leaves. Young hands breaking the soft earth and planting the tree. But most of all, the now-old hands returning and touching the bark of an old friend. Every year the sprinkler buzz, the leaves grow and then fall, new branches burst from the trunk, the sun hits the top leaves and the rain almost reaches the core. Each year, just like a new layer to the bark, more memories are placed on the spot of ground out next to that young maple.