Sheltered beneath the old weeping willow again, memories hidden beneath its shady umbrella are unearthed.
Grandpa’s tall tales of being a pilot, lion tamer, spy. Apron-clad Grammy shouting me in for a bath or delicious home-baked treat. Fighting my brother, recklessly swinging from those rope-like branches.
The day we tied sunshine yellow ribbons around its trunk to commemorate their passing.
Their special place long before ours.
Tracing over their initials forever crudely etched on the trunk, I retrieve Grandpa’s old penknife from my pocket. I scratch my own initials below, wishing one day I might have someone to share this with.