I went back to the tree. I am not sure which one it was. We lay under it on the grass that afternoon with our iced coffees and gazed at the sprawling branches. If I think about it now, it may have been around this time two years ago. Because it was after spring break, and we were both on the cusp of the next thing, the next romance, the next phase… And it was the last time I remember talking to him, I mean really talking to him.
Has it really been two years? It was so peaceful and lackadaisical with no sense of pressure or finality. There was nothing to worry about; only possibilities of the future to look forward to—neither of us graduating, both of us carefree… but our friendship was about to fizzle in the wake of our separate romances.
And now that both of them are over, we’ve lost touch almost completely. And in a few months from now, we’ll both be locked into jobs on opposite sides of the country, indefinitely.
So I went back to the tree, hoping for the freshness of possibilities and excitement for the future to return to me, carried by the fingers of the branches and grass-blades reaching, merging, striving… but they were trembling, hushed and austere.