There was, still is, a tree in my front yard.
It’s made of oak, I think, but I don’t care.
I just remember when it died for me.
It was when he said he was leaving.

He opened the red front door and I saw it.  
It didn’t shield me from the bright light like it was supposed to.
The leaves parted and the light was blinding.
When I finally adjusted, I knew that he was gone.  

I watched as he was protected by shade, bathed in filtered light. His steps crunched leaves
Beneath black shoes with a sound I used to love.
The tree escorted him to his car with an inviting path while
Its branches did nothing to stop him.

After that I couldn’t listen.
I couldn’t hear the breeze I once remembered.
I hit the tree to knock it down. My knuckles bled, my forearms burned.
It just stood and I wished that it would hit me back.  

Then, I saw the backyard tree.
Knowing it would never betray me while aiding a hasty exit.
It would never cast a comfortable shade on an unexpected ending.
Its branches would comfort me when I needed help.

I sat beneath the backyard tree and felt a breeze
I used to know. A breeze I once remembered.
I felt the breeze remember me and
Wished that I felt nothing.

It was the natural swivel of the barstool
When my friend called my name
That swung me so abruptly.
I swiveled for what seemed like seconds
And I looked to where it turned me.

Hands over her head and eyes closed
I saw that she was small
Tilting semi rhythmically to something loud and current.
She didn’t notice me because the bar was always crowded and
Her eyes were always closed.

I felt shaky determination when I offered her the first of many drinks.
I walked back to her with no regard to rhythm
When whiskey is involved I become aware of how I walk
Small, stuttered steps masked by dim bar lighting
Everything was disguised in the translucent haze and I felt better.

I moved closer and she backed away, enough to make me chase her
Speaking and nodding, never hearing, wiping the moisture from our drinks away
The condensation never stopping for three years
Speaking and nodding, we never heard what the other said besides “one more.”    
Drinking by each year filtered through the ice in clear, plastic cups.