In the back yard there was an enormous Weeping Willow tree. My father lived in a two storied space. Two bedrooms above. Master bedroom below with kitchen and living room.. Unique was it not. All the houses looked alike. Located in a rustic, rural setting, large houses were old and past their initial intentions. There were only 10 houses in the entire neighborhood. Like an enormous al- anon meeting, each house told their story of failure and the promise of redemption. The abused sections getting their perfunctory gutter replacement. The confusion of mixed iron, wood and brick facades. The obligatory installation of a skylight over the kitchen. Like a bizarre self -help group, all 10 houses witnessed to the the sins of the architect being passed on to the 3rd and 4th generation. And always this tree. I remember the immediate area being dominated by this tree; an enormous Weeping Willow tree.
It was winter. The branches were many. Like the fingers of a hundred old ones in their beds, all long and bare; the expectation of movement that never came; Frozen in some sleep induced memory of action. Long, arching, seemingly dead branches that mocked more than wept. Absolutely impractical for use. The summer months of hiding among the branches were practically a lifetime away. It was not of the sort in which houses were built. You were simply allowed the devastating honor of meandering through its tentacles and listening to the thin, weazened echo of voices at play among its fluid, green curtain.
You approached the Tree from either the back porch or the path between the house and the garage. The porch was a poor excuse for an addition to a house. I was reminded of places I had visited where rooms were built in which you could not stand up straight. It was meant as an optical illusion. In my house it was the price you paid to make it into the back yard. As the one and only toilette was located on the porch, it gave new meaning to being pissed off. One had to aim to be pissed on.
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