They. Are. Fighting.
What I hear is muffled. I hear my dad's voice cracking and angry. I hear my mother being as quiet as possible not to upset us but it comes out acid, still.
In the basement, sneak away to where it's safe. Arguing about me, I'll not be in contact. Walk outside, a breeze rushing past I throw my back, but gently, against the wall, arms next to me pressing the surface.
The city is small and quiet and there's a car somewhere near. There's a stray cat and it feels like Halloween in the distance even though it's summertime. In a moment of independence, I decide to climb a tree.
* * *
Some years back, last year maybe:
It was windy. The tent was beneath the tree like it was every summer. A giant green canvas tent (giant to me that is) with no floor that smelled vaguely like gasoline. There was a tarp laid down for the floor that got wet when it rained, making it impossible to be comfortable during harsh wet weather.
Unwritten songs playing in my head, feeling like an adventure. Not a big one, just an adventure.
Matt is over and he's in the process of being convinced to sleep outside in the tent by my childhood manipulations. He's scared because of the wind and he's being told, "It's nothing!" and, "You shouldn't worry, what's the problem with wind? We're going to be in the tent anyway, we don't have to go outside. I like going to sleep with the wind, it sounds really cool!"
After an hour or so of this and variations and cunning comfort smiles he agrees to follow. Walk out like such a little trooper, eyes wide and the wind is whipping hard enough to nearly knock the blankets and pillows from my dirty hands.
Enter the tent excited at first, but Matt can't sleep. I don't particularly want to sleep but had promised I would and it's not working. Rather than listen to him cry I decide his torture is over, gather the things and go back inside.
...during the night there was a loud crash. the sky was bright flashing light lit up blue neon...
The next day, walking outside and the tent is smashed. It looks like a dead bird with it's hollow metal bones sticking out buried beneath a pile of evergreen limbs. Lightning had struck the tree next to the one the tent was beneath skinning the north side of the tree of all branches. Having been hit at its base, it was destroyed entirely and took the tent out with it also causing a small amount of damage to our roof and several good hours of us hauling out branches and at least another hour of mom bandaging up our hands.
It still hasn't hit me, at least ten years later, how lucky I am to be alive.
* * *
This evening however, is relatively calm though there are occasional breezes. The skinned tree is waving slightly at the top, it's well over three stories high, closer to four. The north side being bereft of its limbs makes a natural ladder that I'd used during their last fight to build a platform about fifteen feet up among the stronger branches.
Knowing nothing. Hop on the fence, hoist feet up, flatten and grab a bottom branch that's about as thick as I am. Fifteen feet up the branches are still as thick as my legs. Ten more feet and they're just slightly wider than my arms. Another five feet and the branches are more like walking sticks, another five and they're starting to crack or bend a little when I step on them. The top of the tree is only feet away and my intention originally was to go no higher.
An impulse that happens like electrical storms pulses and I move to grab the next branch when a breeze blows and I clutch the tree hard not wanting to be thrown off. Breezes on the ground are soft, but when there's no cover and nothing blocking its path you begin to realize how hard the wind is actually moving.
There are two things in my vision. The section of the tree and its branches in front of me, and the section above me. At this height, the tree has all its branches. The other tree didn't skin the topmost section, now I'm weaving between a mass of prickles and pine cones. Understanding takes over and I climb more, but keep those breezes in the front of my mind. As much as I can, as high as I can go, the branches I'm grabbing are thinner than my fingers, the branches that my feet are on are thin too but closer together so I'm able to stand on at least two at once.
Climb higher, the branches are too thin so I'm searching the stem of the tree itself for wide enough spaces to grab.
Another foot, maybe two, and I'm as high as I can go. There is nothing else to grab. There is a single prickly finger at the very top of the tree. It is standing straight up. I find the last possible foot hold and take the thickest part of the tree in my right hand and push myself up so that the top of my head peaks just above that prickly leaf. I do that, and I look out, and for the first time in my life, I can see the entire town. I'm higher than anything else. Nothing is above me kissing sky.
The lights on in the cathedral illuminate a metaphor from miles away. The cross is higher than any other businesses, I thank God to be alive.
The cars moving through are like matchbook cars. The lights in houses move shadows across lawns and there is a buzz and a hum and there is life in this place even hating it so constantly.
A breeze comes and I'm shooting down as fast as I can for thicker branches, nearly slip, regain, and look out again. The view three feet down just isn't the same. Knowing I've been higher, there is no glory in this. Going back up is not an option.
Climb down, walk in the door without worrying that my parents knew I'd left or if they were still arguing, but when they see me I pretend that my life didn't change forever.
What I hear is muffled. I hear my dad's voice cracking and angry. I hear my mother being as quiet as possible not to upset us but it comes out acid, still.
In the basement, sneak away to where it's safe. Arguing about me, I'll not be in contact. Walk outside, a breeze rushing past I throw my back, but gently, against the wall, arms next to me pressing the surface.
The city is small and quiet and there's a car somewhere near. There's a stray cat and it feels like Halloween in the distance even though it's summertime. In a moment of independence, I decide to climb a tree.
* * *
Some years back, last year maybe:
It was windy. The tent was beneath the tree like it was every summer. A giant green canvas tent (giant to me that is) with no floor that smelled vaguely like gasoline. There was a tarp laid down for the floor that got wet when it rained, making it impossible to be comfortable during harsh wet weather.
Unwritten songs playing in my head, feeling like an adventure. Not a big one, just an adventure.
Matt is over and he's in the process of being convinced to sleep outside in the tent by my childhood manipulations. He's scared because of the wind and he's being told, "It's nothing!" and, "You shouldn't worry, what's the problem with wind? We're going to be in the tent anyway, we don't have to go outside. I like going to sleep with the wind, it sounds really cool!"
After an hour or so of this and variations and cunning comfort smiles he agrees to follow. Walk out like such a little trooper, eyes wide and the wind is whipping hard enough to nearly knock the blankets and pillows from my dirty hands.
Enter the tent excited at first, but Matt can't sleep. I don't particularly want to sleep but had promised I would and it's not working. Rather than listen to him cry I decide his torture is over, gather the things and go back inside.
...during the night there was a loud crash. the sky was bright flashing light lit up blue neon...
The next day, walking outside and the tent is smashed. It looks like a dead bird with it's hollow metal bones sticking out buried beneath a pile of evergreen limbs. Lightning had struck the tree next to the one the tent was beneath skinning the north side of the tree of all branches. Having been hit at its base, it was destroyed entirely and took the tent out with it also causing a small amount of damage to our roof and several good hours of us hauling out branches and at least another hour of mom bandaging up our hands.
It still hasn't hit me, at least ten years later, how lucky I am to be alive.
* * *
This evening however, is relatively calm though there are occasional breezes. The skinned tree is waving slightly at the top, it's well over three stories high, closer to four. The north side being bereft of its limbs makes a natural ladder that I'd used during their last fight to build a platform about fifteen feet up among the stronger branches.
Knowing nothing. Hop on the fence, hoist feet up, flatten and grab a bottom branch that's about as thick as I am. Fifteen feet up the branches are still as thick as my legs. Ten more feet and they're just slightly wider than my arms. Another five feet and the branches are more like walking sticks, another five and they're starting to crack or bend a little when I step on them. The top of the tree is only feet away and my intention originally was to go no higher.
An impulse that happens like electrical storms pulses and I move to grab the next branch when a breeze blows and I clutch the tree hard not wanting to be thrown off. Breezes on the ground are soft, but when there's no cover and nothing blocking its path you begin to realize how hard the wind is actually moving.
There are two things in my vision. The section of the tree and its branches in front of me, and the section above me. At this height, the tree has all its branches. The other tree didn't skin the topmost section, now I'm weaving between a mass of prickles and pine cones. Understanding takes over and I climb more, but keep those breezes in the front of my mind. As much as I can, as high as I can go, the branches I'm grabbing are thinner than my fingers, the branches that my feet are on are thin too but closer together so I'm able to stand on at least two at once.
Climb higher, the branches are too thin so I'm searching the stem of the tree itself for wide enough spaces to grab.
Another foot, maybe two, and I'm as high as I can go. There is nothing else to grab. There is a single prickly finger at the very top of the tree. It is standing straight up. I find the last possible foot hold and take the thickest part of the tree in my right hand and push myself up so that the top of my head peaks just above that prickly leaf. I do that, and I look out, and for the first time in my life, I can see the entire town. I'm higher than anything else. Nothing is above me kissing sky.
The lights on in the cathedral illuminate a metaphor from miles away. The cross is higher than any other businesses, I thank God to be alive.
The cars moving through are like matchbook cars. The lights in houses move shadows across lawns and there is a buzz and a hum and there is life in this place even hating it so constantly.
A breeze comes and I'm shooting down as fast as I can for thicker branches, nearly slip, regain, and look out again. The view three feet down just isn't the same. Knowing I've been higher, there is no glory in this. Going back up is not an option.
Climb down, walk in the door without worrying that my parents knew I'd left or if they were still arguing, but when they see me I pretend that my life didn't change forever.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
i sent it to all the people on my messenger list
xo
It's gourgeous... you know in a somber sort of way.