these days are a lonely horizon

i was three when i first remember seeing you. i ran outside and put my hand against you, hoping to feel your tangled heartbeat. i thought of you as a bridge -- you connected me to the sky, to the earth, to all the things i could not name yet. but i felt them.

when i was six, i finally conquered you. i had been trying ever since i saw you, but as a three- and four-year old my tiny hands just weren't strong enough to hold on. i stood high on your shoulders, staring into the vast white-spotted sky. i could see the pine trees that outlined the edges of grandpa's property -- and beyond. i felt bigger then than i ever have since.

eight: you were my sanctuary. you hid me from mike, from all the teasing and tears. i never understood why he did it; i still don't. you didn't care about the reason. you knew that i was just a lost little girl who didn't know the difference between real life and fantasy. i know you worried sometimes, tried to throw me out of your reach and onto the acorn-pebbled grass below, but i held on. i knew that if i was down there, i'd have cuts and scrapes and bruises, and not just on the outside.

at twelve, i hated you. i blamed you for your shelter, the way you kept me believing in fantasies where everyone cared about me. i hid in the house, drowning in the recliners in the kitchen and listening to news pundits argue. i hated them. i looked out the window and hoped you knew it was your fault.

you did; your branches drooped and sighed in the soft breezes. but i still didn't come out.


when i was fourteen, we visited at christmas for grandpa's birthday. there was snow all over you, but i gave you a hug anyway. by then, i knew it was never your fault. it was mine, always mine. i looked up at you, contemplated hiding inside, just one more time. i didn't; i thought i was grown-up, that i didn't need to be protected anymore. i smiled at you through the customary i'll-miss-you tears as we turned down the long road home. i didn't know then that that would be the last time i'd see grandpa, waving goodbye with tearshine in his eyes. you swayed in the breeze. i knew you were saying goodbye too -- so long, until summer, dear.

it was five days after my fifteenth birthday. i had been talking about jewelry with grandma, who'd pulled herself out of an escalating sadness for a few hours to tell me it could all be mine, if i wanted. she said she didn't need it anymore. five hours later, she was gone.

i went to you first -- hid in your leaves from the eyes of the world for the first time in years. i peeked through your branches as the flashing ambulance lights screamed death, death, death, death, as luther barked and bit at the paramedics' black rubber-soled shoes. i knew how he felt. i watched as my younger brother went looking for me, but i didn't let him know i was with you. i couldn't move. you held me and let me cry and it was just what i needed.


dearest climbing tree,
you saw my greatest triumphs and defeats. i want you to know i miss you. after they sold the property, i could only look at you from afar and it broke my heart, not being able to nest myself in you while the world went on below. and i'm so, so sorry that i wasn't there to protect you when you needed me. i'm sorry that at aunt julie's funeral last year, it was too late to save you. but dear, know i carved my name in your stump -- please,

don't forget me.