The Tree

by Aaron Baird

I'm staring down at my latest credit card bill.  It's like PMS, always coming once a month to put me in a foul mood.  It puts a knot in my stomach to see how one man can spend so much on so little.  I look out the window and the overcast sky sweeps away the last remnants of good cheer that might have remained.  The thermostat claims it's close to seventy degrees, but it still seems cold and gloomy.  It doesn't matter, I need fresh air.

As I step out onto my back porch, I hear the squeals of children playing somewhere in the distance.  The sound seems foreign to me, probably because it's been so long since I've made those noises myself.  It reminds me of the call made up by the kids in the neighborhood where I grew up.  It sounded like a cross between an owl and a dying cat, and if you heard it, you would respond with the same shriek which meant you were ready to come over and play.  Some of my most memorable childhood experiences began with that sound echoing through the air.  It's halfway out of my throat before I realize I'm making that same sound now.  Only my own echo responds, though.  There's no one out there who'll play with me.  There hasn't been for years.

Feeling defeated, I turn to go back inside.  Taking one last look over my shoulder, I notice something that wasn't there before.  Sitting at the top of a tall tree in my yard is a young boy.  He's looking down at me from his high perch.  He's too far up for me to see him clearly, but I can still make out the traces of a smile on his face.  It's a carefree expression, one only a child can have.  I wonder how I must look to him from that height.  My heart bursts when he beckons to me to join him.  I've never wanted anything more in my entire life.

He is in a large maple tree.  The first branches are high enough that I need to jump to reach them.  It's not a problem, though.  I used to climb trees like this when I was half the size I am now.  Of course, I was also half the weight I an now, but I can still manage.

Beyond the first branch, the climbing becomes easy.  I hardly even notice my sap-covered hands or the scratches that are appearing all over my arms as I plow a path through the dense twigs.  My focus is on the goal at hand.  I look up and see him still smiling down at me.

With each branch I pass, a weight seems to lift from my shoulders.  If I keep this up, I may get to the top of the tree and float away.  I laugh at the thought of it, or perhaps at something else, or nothing at all; it doesn't matter.  What's important is that a child is waiting for me.  I wonder how much higher I can go before the branches won't be able to support me.  I can feel the wind whip through the leaves and toss the treetop I'm in from side to side.  I'm almost there.  One final maneuver and I'm sitting on a branch facing the boy.

I'm not sure why I didn't notice before now.  The gangly limbs, thick glasses, and bad haircut should have given the illusion away immediately.  The little boy sitting on the branch across the way is me as I was as a child.  I suddenly get the urge to blurt out how sorry I am for not recognizing him sooner and for not remembering him for so many years, but I don't.  I simply let the silence pass between us like the wind that's whistling through my hair.  His smile widens as he looks up into the sky.  I follow his gaze up to the heavens and feel the first raindrops on my face.  I know that when I look back down, the boy won't be there.  He will have faded away, the phantom dissolving into the mist from whence he came.  So instead, I keep my face to the clouds.  The rain is picking up.  I don't know whether the sky is mocking my tears or joining them.  The branches will be slippery on my descent and if I don't go inside soon, I may catch a cold.  These thoughts pass through my mind like water through a sieve.  Those are adult thoughts and I'm not ready to be an adult quite yet.  I'm not ready to return to the world of employers and politics and taxes and bills.  At the top of this tree, I'm in the carefree world of a child and I think I'll stay for a little while longer.