She was just a girl. She was an adventurous girl. She wasn’t afraid to be the first one to say hello to the other kids when she first moved in. She wasn’t afraid the first time she raced her bike down the bumpy, long drive way her new townhouse shared with the others. And she most certainly wasn’t afraid to climb the first tree she climbed, or any afterwards. The first tree was not, and will never be, just a tree, though. Sometimes, it was a ship. Sometimes, it was the only shelter on an island. Sometimes it was a strategic place to ambush zombies with a dart gun. One time, it was even a place tigers and monkeys lived. But, every time, it was anywhere the girl wanted to go that would take her away from home. She was just a girl. She expected the world, and when it flew away from her reach, she would dream of paradise.*

This tree was the first one I could climb, and the last one I ever did before I moved again. Small, full of knots and imperfections, it remains the prettiest thing that sat in my small world. A short trunk, a low base, and a dramatic lean that favored the street made it just too easy to climb. Along with a long branch that, positioned correctly, you could hoist yourself right on up there. I spent countless hours on this one branch, my back against the tree, contemplating the blue, flaking house I faced. Whenever Maddie and Austin joined me, it was almost necessary to call “shotgun” on that branch. That’s where I sat, even as a teenager, not knowing that I would spend my final hours of childhood there. Solitude was fitting for that situation. Despite being next to the main road and long driveway, this tree managed to seem secluded. The large patch of grass, sidewalk, and a bush that hugged the corner helped that factor. It was enough to hide me when I needed to disappear, and if I was really needed, I could be found.

After all this tree did for me, it took more of a beating than it ever gave us. It really was ideal for climbing though. Even on those occasions that we might have misjudged the distance, or challenged the tree’s height a little too far, the bark was soft, and breakable, leaving just a small cut or scrape as a battle wound. Except for the time I fell completely off. An instance responsible for the taste of blood and dirt in my mouth now associated with that particular plant life. When bark suffered and gave way under our ratty tennis shoes or dirty bare feet, underneath lay the smooth inside. I can still remember the powerful feeling, when I was trying to escape the feeling of being weak, of bending the flimsy twigs off their branch and feeling the tree’s moist, pink, layers under my fingertips. It was like peeling a bad sunburn, or learning your bully was capable of being compassionate. This tree was nicer to us than the rest of the world could ever be. This tree was the embodiment of a nicer world. The leaves were silk, the dirt underneath was mush, and it had the best patch of grass in the summer when everything was dry. Even the crab apples, which we picked off as soon as they showed, were only ever hard when we were shooting them at each other. But, like those crabapples that disappeared at the end of the summer, my paradise did too, only it didn’t come back after the snow melted.

I would spend so long outside that, when I did come home, it was accompanied by an overwhelming aroma of sweat, grass and dirt. This tree had a particular smell that set it apart from the other areas of nature I abused with my adolescent antics. The crab apples and floral inside made a sweet smell. I was always impressed that despite being next to the street, the smell was never really defiled by car exhaust. Another reason to feel like I was invincible when I was here, no evil could touch it. It always smelled fresh, a la nature, but to the point where it even made us dirt ridden kids feel clean, like the summer thunderstorms we played through. Which was something timeless.

I wouldn’t be surprised if 15 years from now, someone peeled a piece of bark off and echoes of laughter spilled out of the tree. When the entire gang was out, we built impenetrable walls out of screaming, talking, and laughing around this tree. Not even the weird lady across that street that would yell at us for even the slightest thing, could deflate our childhood voice. Even when there were just a couple us, someone was talking and someone was laughing. And when it was just I, sitting on that tree and contemplating that flaking, blue, house, the tree seemed to giggle too. As it’s leaves rippled and rustle, and the squirrels that littered our neighborhood wrestled just as we would, I would listen as nature and the neighborhood laughed along with my memories.

She was just a girl. She was a brave girl. She wasn’t afraid when her life slowly collapsed beneath her. She wasn’t afraid to say goodbye to the ground she built, and the life she had come to know. And she most certainly wasn’t afraid to climb a new, bigger tree. When she was just a girl, she expected the world, but it flew away from her reach and the bullets catch in her teeth. And in the stormy night, she closed her eyes, and dreamed of paradise.*



* “Paradise” written and performed by Coldplay