When I was 7,
I used to climb the tallest tree in my backyard,
nestle myself in her open arms,
and we’d watch the entire world pass us by.
I named her Grandmother Willow, not only because I watched Pocahontas so many times the tape broke, but because this tree too could talk.
She would whisper secrets,
the chime of her leaves in the wind was our special code,
and she knew she was safe when she confided in me.
She told me of my neighbor, that he often stayed awake until odd hours in the morning,
that once she saw him kiss a woman who did not look like his wife in the middle of the driveway.
We were mortified.
We laughed when we learned the boy with sun-kissed cheeks and glasses had a crush on my mom.
Grandmother Willow learned this when he stuffed anonymous love letters…
View original post 440 more words