Memory of a birch tree
Days I would save: years later I learned of the dangers but that was the summer I climbed trees, my child’s arm reaching unhesitating upwards to the nearest branch, my hand curling easily around the bark between knots, that tug in the shoulder, a leap into the green.
This was the summer the trees imprinted themselves onto my hands, the paper bark rattling against my palms, the way my feet, shoe-soft at the beginning of summer, soon bore inscribed patterns.
I would save this: my seat up high, the way I could almost look into the second storey bedroom. I remember “Colleen! Get down from there,” the way I wore a hat to hide my red and giveaway hair from my terrified mother and would tuck myself carefully into the hollow, brushing the twigs forward. The way I was convinced I would never ever fall, and never did, the tree taking care of me.
This I would save too: the summer that came later, the sun just turning hotter, the tree sprouting its leaves as we entered into June, the way I would touch the new buds, sticky with sap. The way the leaves would unfurl, how up close they were soft, almost furry; if I put out my hand, they would inch their way around my finger, slow and precious on a summer afternoon.
And this too is worthy of saving: my mother was frightened but from that height I could look down at my father, his back bending alive and healthy as he pushed the lawnmower around our yard, his tongue sticking out in concentration, his thin form yanking the machine over the grass. I can remember my father from that vantage point, his own red hair shining through tree branches, the annoyed look on his face as the lawnmower stuck, the way I looked down at him and then across, as he moved over the grass.
This was one of the last summers, that summer; later the seasons altered and came earlier; lawnmowers became easier to push. Trees became dangerous and I understood my mother’s fears; suddenly it was like I could fall; I weighed too much for the branches. And we all grew older, all of us, trees included, except my father who didn’t.
Still I would save them, these days of that summer, my summer. The patterns of it inscribing themselves like unpolished wood on my skin. I would: those days come back to me now, sweet and bittersweet, soft, the way an early leaf feels, unfurling around my finger. The way all leaves felt, when they brushed against me, all branches, the way they gathered around me as I sat in a tree hollow, the way they reached down with all their might to gather me in.
