Still, I was afraid to tell him. He’d tell my mother and pretty soon they’d insist that I stop.
So I kept quiet, kept climbing, and felt a somewhat lonely joy as I looked out over the world.
Then a few months ago I found myself talking to the tree. An entire conversation, just me and a tree.
And on the climb down I felt like crying. Why didn’t I have someone real to talk to?
Why didn’t I have a best friend like everyone else seemed to?
Sure, there were kids I knew at school, but none of them were close friends.
They’d have no interest in climbing the tree. In smelling the sunshine.
That night after dinner my father went outside to paint.
In the cold of the night, under the glare of the porch light, he went out to put the finishing touches on a sunrise he’d been working on.
I got my jacket and went out to sit beside him, quiet as a mouse. After a few minutes he said, “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
In all the times I’d sat out there with him, he’d never asked me that. I looked at him but couldn’t seem to speak.
He mixed two hues of orange together, and very softly he said, “Talk to me.” I sighed so heavily it surprised even me.
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