Old Maple Tree

I was thirteen, carving my initials into the dirt beside an old maple tree as though that would be my only legacy. I had held onto my Walkman as though it was the answer to everything, singing back the lyrics of a song on a CD that still sits in the stereo of my car. In those moments, I dreamt of a day when you would materialize from that castle in the sky.

A dozen years later, I am certain that I can still trace the way back to that tree, which for a long time was the only limb that held me.

Some nights, I still reach out into the dark, grasping at the nothingness in hopes that a light will flicker on and I can stop this ride around an ever-dimming merry-go-round.

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