He jumped out of his pickup truck, and after talking with my mother for a few minutes,
he got the guy in the cherry picker to give him a lift up to where I was.
After that it was all over. I started crying and tried to get him to look out over the rooftops, but he wouldn’t.
He said that no view was worth his little girl’s safety. He got me down and he took me home, only I couldn’t stay there.
I couldn’t stand the sound of chain saws in the distance.
So Dad took me with him to work, and while he put up a block wall, I sat in his truck and cried.
I must’ve cried for two weeks straight. Oh, sure, I went to school and I functioned the best I could, but I didn’t go there on the bus.
I started riding my bike instead, taking the long way so I wouldn’t have to go up to Collier Street.
Up to a pile of sawdust that used to be the earth’s most magnificent sycamore tree.
Then one evening when I was locked up in my room, my father came in with something under a towel.
I could tell it was a painting because that’s how he transports the important ones when he shows them in the park.
He sat down, resting the painting on the floor in front of him. “I always liked that tree of yours,” he said.
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