The climbing tree

The roots stretched like long thin fingers gripping the packed earth around the sandbox. As we leaned over the edge, focused on Matchbox cars or Star Wars figures, we could feel the knuckles of wood beneath our knees. They felt like immobile stones wrapped in skin. It was the skin of a hardened laborer, thick with callouses and scars, with ridges and cracks. There was no need to look at them, we knew the by feel.

We couldn't see the path of the roots, but we knew hub from which they all radiated. She was just a few feet from the chain link fence which lead to the back, backyard. At her base you could see more of the knuckles of root than anywhere else, but these were different. Smoother, worn that way by the K-mart tennis shoes of by brother and I who seemed to be around it so often, and lighter in color than everything above it.

The black bark of her trunk was fascinating. It would hold the dampness of the morning dew until deep in the morning and it was not uncommon to find the dried, yellowed husks of cicadas still holding onto the wrinkles of wood. We would hide on the far side, either from being found or from incoming fire from a stick-gun. It became a perfect obstacle during a game of tag. It was a place to lean and think when life seemed unfair.

At about head height, the truck made its first divide, making smaller trucks and a few branches. A couple of these branches were a little larger around than baseball bats, and curved up into the canopy of the tree. Strong, but grab able. Never moving, even when we bounced on them. These were the access to the other world, the place where you left the earth and looked down on those who had no idea you were up there. You could climb as high as you dared, or rest in a crook.

When you looked in the chaos of gray branches and green leaves rippling in the breeze, you could almost see the children who came before. High in the tree, peaking out from towering boughs, you could see the glimpses of movement. They were there, but not. Like shadows in a dark room, you could never quite point them out, but you could feel the connection to them when you climbed. The leaves whispered in the wind, giving them voice. "Up here." "Can you see me?"

Standing on one branch, balancing with another, we would crane our necks and try to look around obstacles which kept these ghosts out of sight. The children of the tree. Perhaps if we climbed just a little higher, a little closer, she would share her secrets.