Mesquite Trees in the Rio Grande Valley are like weeping willows, saying goodbye to me as we drive back home up 281. Their long, crooked boughs capture the slightest breeze. “Goodbye, Veronica,” they tell me.
They wave goodbye without complaining, but as I drive away, I can already hear their memories in the rustle of their wind. There was the time when I first climbed their brances when I was 5, when I tried building a treehouse, when I perched for hours as a neighborhood spy, when I “ran away” into their canopy and cried for hours because of parental spats. My entire life I spent my life in their limbs.
Stalwart guardians of the past, these trees. Can’t wait to come back and visit again.