Broken Fences ...Mended Hearts

Broken Fences…Mended Hearts

Selena:

In all my years I have dreamed of one day having a Weeping Willow tree nestled in the backyard of my home. My dreams rustle back through the graceful branches of a stately willow that flourished in the back yard of my grandparent’s house. Long passed from this life now, their memory still whispers like a gentle breeze through the delicate leaves on that old willow against my tear stained cheeks.

What is it about the Weeping Willow that calls my name? Perhaps it is the calming, gentle energy that murmurs of compassion that speaks to me. I read once that people born beneath a Willow tree are striking-looking creatures. They are drawn to anything beautiful and refined, and their taste in clothing is classic and elegant. Despite their perfect exteriors, these caring souls often weep inside. Dreamers, they have a great love of travel. These people have highly developed intuitions and are often drawn by their spirits. I think I was somehow born beneath a Willow tree.

I spent countless hours as a child playing and dreaming beneath the willow in grandpa and grandma’s back yard. It was my corner of the world where all my dreams came true. A world so full of beauty even today my memories of my days there can take my breath from me. A canopy of yellow and light green lace hung nearly to the ground. The fragrant sweetness of earth tickled my nose. The air would float around me as if angel’s gently fanned my flushed face. Often I would lie against the sturdy trunk and look past the broken fence into the orchard of apple trees. That broken fence was the only thing ugly in my life at the time…but then isn’t that how it is in the innocence of one’s youth?

Rose:

There is a broken fence behind my house. I built it as a reminder to myself. Quick escapes can be made through broken slates, especially if one is used to breaking away from nightmares. Beautiful white rose bushes line the fence, well, except for the portion of broken down slates. Even after all these years I still need to know I can run if need be.

I hate Weeping Willows. Their long fingers reaching out to grab me; touch me even when my mind yelled, “No.” There is nothing gentle about a giant. They remind me of ‘the dirty old man’…that is how I know him. Maybe that is why the word ‘No’ stayed in my mind and did not escape my lips. He was the giant; I was just a little girl.
The Weeping Willow that held court in my grandparent’s back yard was dark and foreboding, its branches reaching to the ground, ready to imprison me. How many times did I become trapped there, seeing the broken fence and plotting my flight?

Some days even now, these thirty years later, I still find I drift back to the days of my childhood, murky as they are. For then I only knew normal was to be touched by a ‘dirty old man’…and he was my grandpa.