what you should know about me
Soft winds rustled the leaves of the tree
Atop the emerald hill.
It was a lone tree,
Thick and wise with age.
Many things has it seen,
And many more does it know.
In the time of its youth,
The two children would play beneath its shading branches,
Escaping the smoldering heat
Of the sun at midday.
They sat in the grass,
Enjoying summer’s warm breeze.
At no more than the age of six,
They loyally returned to their tree each day.
It overlooked a green meadow,
Riddled with wildflowers of all colors.
The two children would lean against the tree,
Enjoying spring’s perfect beauty.
They did this each day without fail,
And each day they were together,
They realized how much more than friendship this was;
How much stronger.
She could not live without him,
Nor could he without her.
For they were meant to be
Picked by the angels,
They were in love.
It was true love,
In its rarest form.
As they got older,
They knew their love for each other was great.
So they would sit beneath the tree,
Staring into each others eyes.
They kissed in the fields
Beneath the tree watched by the soft blue sky.
And they held hands
As they returned home from the meadows.
As summer’s heat began to die,
They would sit closer and closer.
They kept each other warm,
And a euphoric sense of perfection was upon them.
Each day they did this
For years and years.
Through all the seasons,
And they loved each other more than life itself.
Well into their teens now,
Each day they welcomed each other with a warm embrace.
They stood there in each others arms beneath the blooming tree,
Like a picture from a fairy tale.
One hot summer’s day,
When all was right,
He arrived at her side,
And kissed her softly.
He then gracefully kneeled at her feet,
And pulled out a small black velvet box.
He opened it and asked for her hand
As the wind gently ruffled her long flowing skirt.
Before he could even get the words out,
Her joyous tears were falling like rain.
Instantly, she accepted,
And held him tightly.
They were due to wed in the early spring,
Under their tree.
Her bouquet would come from the meadow,
And it would be perfect.
Still, each day they met.
They danced in the fields
And their love was so beautiful,
As the days grew cold and dew had frozen the grass,
There was a solemn feeling about them,
As though a foreboding weight had been dropped upon their shoulders,
Just two months before their wedding.
On the day of the first snow,
She walked to the empty tree.
She was not greeted by her love,
But instead, a note.
She slowly grabbed it,
Felling so hurt, confused, and alone.
She opened it slowly and carefully,
As her forehead creased with worry.
Reading it quickly,
She then ran home.
She looked into the old cracked mirror upon her dresser and saw her eyes,
So untouchable and innocent as the new fallen snow.
She hid her face in her hands,
And began to weep.
The note of her one true love
He had joined the army,
And may never be seen again.
He likely would not return alive—
If he returned at all.
She slowly slid on her wedding dress.
She grabbed her rope,
And ran out the door.
She was invisible against the snow,
Until she reached the tree.
Quickly, she wrote a note on her sweet smelling paper,
And placed it upon a tiny branch.
She grabbed her rope,
And tied a special knot
Before throwing it over a sturdy branch,
And pulling it tight.
Standing on the top of her toes like a cat ready to pounce,
She gently fits her head through the loop,
And stares into the meadows
One last time.
The noose tightens around her neck,
And a single tear runs down her cheek;
Her last gift,
To her life’s only love.
Two days before her wedding,
He went to the tree to find his bride, dead—
With nothing more than a note.
Heartbroken, he gingerly approached the corpse,
And took the note she left.
He opened it carefully
And looked at it in disbelief.
“I will always love you…”
He read no louder than a whisper.
“…and now we can be together forever.”
Forever and ever.
He had nothing left to live for.
He searched for a hope,
But none could be found.
The night before his wedding,
He returned to the meadow
In which his bride lay dead.
His only love, perished.
He approached the tree
And stood under its thick limbs.
He stared at his bride’s hanging body and spoke,
He closed his eyes,
And the metallic taste of the gun was all he knew.
He pulled the trigger,
And its shot destroyed the tranquility of the meadows.
Some say, their spirits still dance in the fields,
Or sit by the tree.
Whatever the truth may be,
A darkness still hovers like a thick fog.
For there is poetry in despair,
And a lovely beauty hidden in sorrow.
In death there is peace,
And in peace,
There is love.