When I was five or six or seven, I loved to climb trees. It didn’t matter what kind – bushy crabapples, spacious maples or sappy pines. I lost count of how many times my mother had to cut sap out of my hair (maybe that’s
where it all went
But one tree still stands out in my mind. It was a big, beautiful spruce. It seemed a hundred feet tall. I know
it was at least thirty, taller than the two-story beside it. At its base, its branches formed a tent, perfect for secret conversations or an experimental kiss. On top, I could see the whole neighborhood, and rock, side to side, in the crow’s nest of a great three-masted sailing schip. It terrified my mother (and the lady who lived in the house). I hope it’s still there.