Under the Elm

I sat in the middle of an empty field. Empty albeit a tree and I. Towering high above me, the tree was an imposing figure of dry bark and bare limbs. Through the summer months the tree was a prosperous plant with a stunning display of vibrant green leaves. Those same leaves have long since abandoned the American elm. Lonely and cold in the winter months, the elm longed to be an evergreen.

Much like the tree, I wished to be an evergreen. I knew that it would be wonderful to be forever happy, prosperous and full of life. Much like the tree, though, I'd been left to bare the cold of the winter without arms to hold me and a heart to warm me.

Beneath this tree a love had once sat. That love was between two young kids who didn't understand the world quite yet. That quality was the reason why that particular love had been so prosperous. They had no idea what pain was, or heartbreak and death. Neither had expected the country to split, nor did they expect brother to be fighting brother.

I missed that love. A love that had blown away like the dried and dead leaves of the cadaverous elm. What I missed the most was more than just the feeling that made my heart ache; I missed the physical as much as the emotional. Now, I longed to be able to see his twinkling brown eyes or to feel the soft curls of his hair. My ears longed for the sound of his deep chuckle that rolled from his handsome mouth as if it were the true sound of happiness.

As the wind kissed my cheek, I closed my eyes and thought back to the good and the bad. The good being sitting beneath this very tree. Our limbs had been intertwined and our eyes locked by a key forged from passion. Everything in that moment had seemed perfect beyond description. We had thought that being in love meant having the whole world in front of us.
We didn't know, however, how wrong we were.

Then, there was the bad. He'd seen it coming before I had. Long before I had, in fact. The way his father and brother bickered without end, and the way that my father and his had long discussions. How we sat out on the porch, listening to these battles and knowing that he'd be expected to join more than just the verbal fight.

Flashes of his face passed through my memory. At the last moment I'd seen him, with a gray jacket pulled over his shoulders and a firearm that had been in his family for many years held in his left hand. He'd set it down gently before stepping up to me. I felt his warm hands on my face, his breath on my cheek, his lips pressed down to mine; I knew he could hear my heart cracking consider how close he was to me.

How will I survive? I had thought

This tree has survived many winters alone, I tell myself silently before looking up. It's thin, empty branches may seem weak but they are attached to a tall, strong foundation. Neither hundreds of winters have not broken this trees spirits, nor the annual loss of it's foliage.

A new decade has come and I have spent many years watching this tree. I tell myself that, if this tree can keep making it through the cold winters, then so can. Once a year, I sit beneath it's twisted branches and we keep each other warm until the spring returns. Then, the leaves return for the elm. My leaf won't ever return but he's with me in thought.

For now, that would be enough.