Into The Rain

As a young girl, I would ride my bicycle alone often.
Up and down the old Victorian streets of the north side.
I was always headed to the same destination-
To the marina, to visit the Willow Tree.

Gliding over the brick alleyway by the old bridge,
A beautiful summer storm began.
A slow downpour with large drops of warm rain, crying.
The sun shown brightly through it all.

I kept throwing my head back,
So the rain would fall on my face.
Closed my eyes. Heaven like. Surreal.
This was not my first rainstorm.

Through the double gates,
I enter the marina.
There it was.
Majestic, the very essence of a dream.
It grew right near the river bank,
and was surrounded by violets.
It sat taller than all the other trees.
Even the bridge neighboring it was
built in its shadow.
This was not my first visit here.

I would climb its forked trunk.
I would sit and stay a while.
I would sleep the afternoon away.
I would bundle its arms like rope,
The branches all together.
I would hug them to swing.

It rained like this for most of  that summer.
So much so that the great Appalachian river flooded.
I heard that it was a lightning strike along with the rising waters,
That took the tree away.

This was not my first rainstorm.
This was not my first visit here.
But this was my last memory of it.