Our Tree - Poem

There is a tree in the meadow where we used to play.

Nowadays, I’m not sure where you went or why you went.

All I know is that the memory of our play causes me to weep

about the memory that we created together.

This tree has two large branches that could hold our children.

Two large branches that held us once,

but now hold plastic bags filled with empty beer bottles.

How do I know this?

Mainly because I visit our tree, hoping that you return to it

like I have for the past thirty years.

Hoping that you are on the other side, playing around

when I don’t see you and try to catch you on the other side,

playing around when I don’t see you.

Again and again until the phone rings and I must go back

to the world that I live in alone.

The world that we agreed we would make our own

until you couldn’t muster the energy to even shake my hand.

There is a tree in the meadow where we used to play.

I lied. I know both where you went and why you went.

It was a bit too late when the ashes were given to me in hand

and I had no other option but to bury them where our tree is

and sleep by the tree until that one phone call came again.

The world that turned you to ash and gives me calls every day.

The world that took you from me.

The world that no longer matters to me and is no longer mine.