Skip to main content
It is crazy to me how much adventure can be found in the simple existence of a tree. Climbing with friends in toe, fingers and dirty feet clenching tightly between the cracks of tree bark pieces and young hearts pushing onward with an intensity that our childish, undeveloped arms could not, we ascended. Shivering leaves the size of my Dad's old baseball mitts, equal to the size of his adult hands now, chattered loudly with hardy palms that sometimes both tussled and smoothed the hair and skin on the backs of mine and my brothers' necks. Green and plush, they gently brushed our arms, sides, thighs, cheeks as we raced up the Tree. The Tree that sat between my duplex and that of my best friend's. The one that destroyed our house's foundation as my father said, but built one for friendship neighborhood wide. Sun splashing down through the leaves all the while. The tree top always came too soon for us, panting and smiling on arrival,all clutching branches and natural seating of our own design. Surrounded by branches strong and laden with fruit. Our precious, beloved "Mole berries". We never knew if that was their real name, or why, or how, or when, or where. All we knew was they were edible, and sweet, and that was information enough. And time passed. The sun reclined back into a sea of deep orange and crimson, and on the fringes of the celestial palette, even violet. A perfect match for the caked up, coagulated berry juices thick under our finger nails and hand-me-down Tommy Hilfiger T-shirts. And in these moments we were blissfully content. More so than being a child would imply. Stains that baths and washing machines couldn't erase all too artfully reflect the regard with which I held, and still hold such days, always to be remembered.
It is crazy to me how much adventure can be found in the simple existence of a tree. Climbing with friends in toe, fingers and dirty feet clenching tightly between the cracks of tree bark pieces and young hearts pushing onward with an intensity that our childish, undeveloped arms could not, we ascended. Shivering leaves the size of my Dad's old baseball mitts, equal to the size of his adult hands now, chattered loudly with hardy palms that sometimes both tussled and smoothed the hair and skin on the backs of mine and my brothers' necks. Green and plush, they gently brushed our arms, sides, thighs, cheeks as we raced up the Tree. The Tree that sat between my duplex and that of my best friend's. The one that destroyed our house's foundation as my father said, but built one for friendship neighborhood wide. Sun splashing down through the leaves all the while. The tree top always came too soon for us, panting and smiling on arrival,all clutching branches and natural seating of our own design. Surrounded by branches strong and laden with fruit. Our precious, beloved "Mole berries". We never knew if that was their real name, or why, or how, or when, or where. All we knew was they were edible, and sweet, and that was information enough. And time passed. The sun reclined back into a sea of deep orange and crimson, and on the fringes of the celestial palette, even violet. A perfect match for the caked up, coagulated berry juices thick under our finger nails and hand-me-down Tommy Hilfiger T-shirts. And in these moments we were blissfully content. More so than being a child would imply. Stains that baths and washing machines couldn't erase all too artfully reflect the regard with which I held, and still hold such days, always to be remembered.
Comments
Post a Comment