The view from my sycamore was more than rooftops and clouds and wind and colors combined. It was magic.
And I started marveling at how I was feeling both humble and majestic. How was that possible?
How could I be so full of peace and full of wonder? How could this simple tree make me feel so complex? So alive.
I went up the tree every chance I got. And in junior high that became almost every day
because the bus to our school picks up on Collier Street, right in front of the sycamore tree.
At first I just wanted to see how high I could get before the bus pulled up,
but before long I was leaving the house early so I could get clear up to my spot to see the sun rise,
or the birds flutter about, or just the other kids converge on the curb.
I tried to convince the kids at the bus stop to climb up with me, even a little ways, but all of them said they didn’t want to get dirty.
Turn down a chance to feel magic for fear of a little dirt? I couldn’t believe it.
I’d never told my mother about climbing the tree. Being the truly sensible adult that she is, she would have told me it was too dangerous.
My brothers, being brothers, wouldn’t have cared. That left my father. The one person I knew would understand.
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