Tree-climbing

Down the street from my house, there is a tree that stands like a many-armed man reaching for the stars. The base of the tree is thick, the branches sturdy and about halfway up is the perfect cubbyhole for a middle-school girl to sit while she waits for the morning bus. If I got there early enough, I could ascend to my throne and be the first to spot the bus as it veered around the corner.

At the rental house we lived in after my dad left, there was a crabapple tree in the backyard. Knowing as I did that apples were good and crabs were expensive, I thought we were sitting on a gold mine, so I picked the apples and put them in the fridge. When my mother asked why there was crap in the fridge, I slowly explained that we would put them on the apple market and get some extra money. My mother dumped them in the backyard to rot. She did not agree.

That tree had a strong base, but weak branches. Although every mother fears her child will come tumbling down the branches and land, inevitably, on an arm or a face, I never fell. That tree became my hiding spot and though I know now that I was probably no more than five feet off the ground, it was a second home. Before we moved away, I placed some little gold metal stars in the center of the tree where all the branches met. As far as I know, they are still there.