A giant live oak tree stood in arabesque on the hill above the creek, a proud centenarian but with arms so long and weary they dug back down into the earth for relief. While the sun sank behind it without saying goodbye, as it does on these arid, cloudless days, Ford and Chas cavorted among the branches. Ford wanted to climb higher than possible, satisfying each inch up the tree with laughter and a hearty jump back down. Chas, for his part, interested himself mostly with the mulch around the base, a dusty combination of dead leaves, acorn bits, bird guano and the small particulates of decomposing plastic gelato spoons from the chi chi grocery store nearby. I cringed as he faced the wind, gleamed with joy and flung a handful of detritus into his face by accident. Mycoplasma, Avian flu, corneal scratches buzzing through my head while Ford demanded “Look at me now, Mommy! Look, Mommy! Mommy, look at me!” I quickly scan Chas, while Ford hops back down to the ground.
No harm done, no tears. Ford looks back up at the heart of the tree, a perfect vortex of boughs and tailored for sitting, tempered and rounded from a century of children. He turns to me with raised eyebrows, and asks me to lift him up to the top. I remind him of my jammed thumb, my short height, and promise that Daddy can help him up next time. A couple walks by, the man understands Ford’s gesturing without hearing a word. I tell Ford that I approve, the man can help lift him up to the top of the trunk. As the man lifts him, I watch every ounce of Ford’s enthusiasm diminish instantly in proportion to height. Tenatively, the man releases his hold on Ford, and enables him feel his presence atop the grand oak, above our heads. Perched so high, he claws that trunk like a castaway cat riding dark seas. While his eyes help round out the terror, his voice says it all, as he quivers his shaky plea,
“mommy can you please get me down?”
Beautiful description. I grew up in California climbing in knotty gnarled oaks. I love your description of his enthusiasm diminishing in proportion to the hight to which he was lifted up. I remember that feeling of virtigo. Now I can only imagine what it will be like to watch my son climb… a different kind of vertigo I imagine!
Thanks. You’ll remember it even more vividly when he eventually does that first climb! Context adds such dimension to your memory; it’s funny how that works.