The Tree in the Field

Here we are, I thought, opening the car door.
It was a lovely summer day, the sky blue and cloudless, the birds atwitter, a cool breeze ruffling the flyaway hairs I hadn't quite managed to scrape into my tight ponytail. I'd figured that maybe if I visited on such a cheerful day, the sight of this place wouldn't reduce me to a sobbing wreck. It had been five years since the Incident, but this was the first time I'd come here after we moved out.
With a gulp, I slammed the car door and set off toward the abandoned stable, boots crunching on the rocky road and then sinking into springy green grass as I stepped off the road.
Once I reached the stable, though, I curved around it, for my destination was not it but the green field that lay behind it. A short, gentle slope led downward from the farm into a wide, open field. Years of no tending had left it looking wild with tall, sunbaked grass, waving to me in the wind as if welcoming me home.
Home. The word formed a lump in my throat. I swallowed it and jogged down the slope into the field.
In the middle of the huge meadow was a single cloven tree, with two or three fallen branches lying around it. It was the size and shape of a willow tree, but it didn't have the long, hanging leaves. I'd never figured out what kind of tree it was, but it had never mattered much to me. What had mattered to me was the tree itself. Ever since I was six, clad in a gingham dress and frilly socks, hair in pigtails, that tree had been my little nook, my sanctuary, my hiding place. I went down there to enjoy the weather, to make daisy chains, to do anything I pleased.
As I grew older, I grew more attached to my little tree in the field. I loved spending long summer days picnicking, reading, and maybe sketching underneath the tree, which protected me with its staunch and sturdy trunk and low branches like arms that warded off intruders for me.
I never let anybody else come with me to my hiding place. Not until I was fifteen. That year, I met a boy. A beautiful boy, with hair that fell just across his forehead and into his right eye, making you want to push it back for him. He had the most stunning blue-green eyes you could stare into all day long and a gentle, inviting smile that turned up only one corner of his mouth. But his appearance wasn't the best thing about him. The best thing about him was that he wanted me. He held my hand and told me I was beautiful. He let me catch him gazing at me with the most tender look in his eyes. He was wasn't flawless, but his flaws were what made him even more perfect.
That summer, I spent most of my time curled up with him under my tree in the field, kissing, cuddling, laughing, talking. I thought my life was perfect. Too good to be true. And it was.
A couple weeks after he graduated high school--I was a year younger than him--he told me he was going to England for college. I felt a wave of mixed emotions hit me like a brick to the face. Shock. Sorrow. Anger. At first, I'd insisted that I would go with him, but he'd gently told me it wasn't possible. In the end, I'd put on a brave face and agreed. But that night, something inside me just broke--the something that had been holding my tears back during the day. I cried and cried and wished I could go with him, but I knew my parents wouldn't even consider it. They didn't even approve of us, which was why our relationship had been kept secret for the past year or so.
So that we could have some quality time together without anybody knowing, we decided to meet at my tree in the middle of the night. I guess we thought it'd be romantic, or something. That night, the night we were supposed to meet, there was a huge storm with pouring rain and thunder and lightning. But he came anyway. I looked out of my bedroom window to see him, soaked through as if he had jumped into a pool fully clothed, waiting for me with his hands in his pockets under the tree.
My heart fluttered a little at the sight, but I just sighed and shook my head at his stupidity, wondering why he'd even think of standing near that tree in the storm, then grabbed my jacket and hurried downstairs to reprimand him. On my way down, I heard a loud clap of thunder which sounded way too close for comfort. I picked up my pace and burst outside, running toward the tree.
A horrible feeling came over me when I saw the tree, which was still a small distance from me. It was burnt and charred and split down the middle, the two halves held together only by roughly two feet of unbroken trunk at the bottom of the tree. One or two branches had snapped and were hanging at awkward angles. My boyfriend was nowhere in sight. I didn't have to get closer to know what had happened.
In the following six months after the Incident, I'd become so depressed that my parents decided to move us out. And although I had mixed feelings about that, I'd ultimately agreed that it was the best thing to do.
I hadn't realized it, but I had kneeled down in front of the tree, my hand on the cloven tree trunk, tears flooding my eyes and trickling down my cheeks.
"I miss you," I whispered, closing my eyes, imagining that he was here sitting cross-legged in the grass on this bright summer day. "I still see you every night, in my dreams. I'm sorry we never got to say goodbye. I'm sorry it was my fault you died. I'm sorry for everything. You deserved more than this."
For a moment, I thought I could feel his warm, loving hand on top of mine. But only for a moment. And then the warmth was gone, snatched away by a sudden gust of strong wind, a mere shadow of a memory of the good times long gone.
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