March Rains Down On Me

March Rains Down on Me

March rains down on me leaving behind emerald carpets of moss and grass and breezes drenched with spring. The rush of rain water tearing through the woods wends its way under the old tree fort. The water never used to flow that way when my boys commanded the fort.

The ramp leading to the fortress has shifted and leans slightly crooked with boards dislodged and rickety. The thick woods have cast mold and mildew in a slippery mess making entry impossible. Seasons of squirrels and chipmunks have invaded the once mighty castle of kings and knights leaving carelessly nibbled walls chalked with the rules of the kingdom. Years ago I gathered the swords and shields. I collected the buckets and fishing poles and airsoft pellets that had not biodegraded. Nerf guns and squirt guns were retired first to a shelf in the garage stored there with some false hope that they might be needed again but now I am unsure where they reside. Remnants of burst water balloons peek up from the milky muddy mess surrounding the obnoxiously bright slide that juts from the left side of the abandoned fort. Spiders prance everywhere on the leaf soaked plastic and peeling wood. We never sealed the tree fort like we were supposed to. Robin Hood careened around the fort and the forest saving all manner of oppressed folk. King Arthur held court constantly while detectives searched for the bad guys. Frogs stared mockingly from the weeded banks of the creek while my hunters stalked them. Native Americans supervised the making of bows and arrows meant to hunt wild beasts. Each twilight fell with honorable intentions of sealing the tree fort wood but each day dawned with grander and more captivating ideas than protecting what was clearly still a towering ship of formidable pretend play.

Then March wrung out the atmosphere and the damns that once held back the waters of so many seasons came crumbling down. The trickle became a flow and then a steady pulse of determined newness shoving its way under the stilted tree house. During a lull in the downpour I wandered out o rescue any memories that I might have left behind before the flowing became a gushing. There was nothing but the present pirated by the seconds that make up the ever approaching past. And the untried and unfamiliar course of the new river streaming around my ankles.