I’ve been thinking about a part if my life I lived many moons ago. The memories sometimes feeling like they happened to another person in another time, sometimes feeling like I lived them just yesterday. The only thing for certain is that I am reminded of them nearly every day. This picture was taken on my way home from picking up my son after work on Thursday. I see it every morning I drop him off at daycare and every evening when I pick him up. Just a tree. Nothing special. Except, it is very special to me and it will be gone soon.
My first love grew up in the house right across the street from this tree. The first time I made love was to him, in that house. I went to tell him I loved him in that house. When I couldn’t deny it any longer, when I had to tell him or I’d burst. I was 17. I thought we’d make love again. We didn’t. Instead, he told me that he had met someone else and it was over with me. I never got to tell him that I loved him. I was completely heartbroken. I left that house, practically ran out of it in tears. I made it across the street to this tree before I broke down, sitting on the ground leaning against this tree and sobbing. I don’t know how long I was there before someone came to take me home. The sun had fallen and shadows crept across the grounds. It seemed the world had shifted, that it had become as sad and gloomy as I.
The person who helped pick me up and get me home was his father. A wonderful man. He passed away on Thursday. Maybe that’s why I stopped when passing this tree, remembering not just the heartbreak I felt at that moment in time but also the kindness of a man who barely knew me then but who would come to mean very much to me in the years that followed. Tomorrow we will celebrate his life and put him to rest. Then on Monday I will watch as the city removes this broken tree, leaving another void that will never be the same.
A different kind of sinful for a different kind of Sunday.