A private romance

I could tell a lengthy story about how it felt to be up in my maple tree.  

The way I’d run out the back door and clamber up just the same way each time, like a secret meeting, between me and that tree.  About the way the rough bark scratched my legs until they were raw and red, and sometimes my hands and feet.  About mother calling me to “get down from there,” about my brother telling me with the same stern look of horror that I’d break my arm if I fall. 

But I never did fall. 

I was strategically situated in the boughs of my tree.  My roost.  Sometimes I’d go all the way up to the highest branches.  But mostly I’d be nestled proudly and contentedly, straddling the second to lowest limb, the one that looked out onto my beautiful Weeping Willow and the gnome-like Shagbark Hickory.  From there, with a little twist to the left, I could see my childhood friend Jim Volpe’s house.  Straight ahead was mother’s rock garden where blackberries and quite a few rabbits were.  All held a great deal of interest for me. 

I don’t remember why or when I stopped climbing.  But to this day I climb in my mind, over and over.  I don’t think I ever left.