And the older I got, the more philosophical he seemed to get.
I don’t know if he really got more philosophical or if he just thought I could handle it now that I was in the double digits.
Mostly the things he talked about floated around me, but once in a while something would happen and I would understand exactly what he had meant.
“A painting is more than the sum of its parts,” he would tell me, and then go on to explain how the cow by itself is just a cow,
and the meadow by itself is just grass and flowers, and the sun peeking through the trees is just a beam of light,
but put them all together and you’ve got magic. I understood what he was saying,
but I never felt what he was saying until one day when I was up in the sycamore tree.
The sycamore tree had been at the top of the hill forever.
It was on a big vacant lot, giving shade in the summer and a place for birds to nest in the spring.
It had a built-in slide for us, too. Its trunk bent up and around in almost a complete spiral, and it was so much fun to ride down.
My mom told me she thought the tree must have been damaged as a sapling but survived,
and now, maybe a hundred years later, it was still there, the biggest tree she’d ever seen.
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