“Even before you told me about it.” “Oh, Dad, it’s okay. I’ll get over it.”
“No, Julianna. No, you won’t.” I started crying. “It was just a tree….”
“I never want you to convince yourself of that. You and I both know it isn’t true.”
“But Dad… ” “Bear with me a minute, would you?” He took a deep breath.
“I want the spirit of that tree to be with you always. I want you to remember how you felt when you were up there.”
He hesitated a moment, then handed me the painting. “So I made this for you.”
I pulled off the towel, and there was my tree. My beautiful, majestic sycamore tree.
Through the branches he’d painted the fire of sunrise, and it seemed to me I could feel the wind.
And way up in the tree was a tiny girl looking off into the distance, her cheeks flushed with wind.
With joy. With magic. “Don’t cry, Julianna. I want it to help you, not hurt you.”
I wiped the tears from my cheeks and gave a mighty sniff. “Thank you, Daddy,” I choked out. “Thank you.”
I hung the painting across the room from my bed. It’s the first thing I see every morning and the last thing I see every night.
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