"The Oldest Of Trees"

He help open the door for me.

I knew this boy was special the minute he asked me about my music. The minute he offered his screen name. Some kind of swooping happy shyness overtook my mouth as he offered to help me with my things. "It was silly," I thought at afterward, "to fall in love with words." But "Anytime, missy" was just the kind of classic gentleman language I had so been deprived of.

Yes, I had been deprived. Like some kind of potted plant on an old woman's porch. She was forgetful, so she never let the light in. Never let me quench my ever-growing thirst. Only rain and sad songs could keep me alive. But the same things that aided me kept me awake at night. I was a moonflower, only a vine by day. By night, I was white and luminous bloom. Pale skin and better intentions than those they credited to me.

So, when I received this boy's name and email address, I felt renewed.

""I'm really here?"

I've said it over and over ever since.

But, at the beginning it was not the love I know of now. We barely knew each other, so it seemed wrong to them. They called me a waste.

And the worst part?

I believed them.

But he, with that kind gentlemanly hand, pulled me from that old woman's brick porch. He took me to the Amazon. It was a wild place full of life and sound. I got tangled in the roots that ran deep with mystery and vibrance. They ran deeper still, with past woes. But together, it was mutual. We thrived together. We shared everything. We plan to be the oldest tree in history.

He held open the door for me.

I knew for sure I loved him.

And I've said it over and over

ever since.