its　parts　moved　from　my　head　to　my　heart。　The　view

from　my　sycamore　was　more　than　rooftops　and　clouds　and　wind　and　colors　bined。

It　was　magic。

And　I　started　marveling　at　how　I　was　feeling　both　humble　and　majestic。　How　was　that

possible？　How　could　I　be　so　full　of　peace　and　full　of

wonder？　How　could　this　simple　tree　make　me　feel　so　plex？　So　alive。

I　went　up　the　tree　every　chance　I　got。　And　in　junior　high　that　became　almost　every　day

because　the　bus　to　our　school　picks　up　on　Collier　Street；

right　in　front　of　the　sycamore　tree。

At　first　I　just　wanted　to　see　how　high　I　could　get　before　the　bus　pulled　up；　but　before　long　I

was　leaving　the　house　early　so　I　could　get　clear　up　to

my　spot　to　see　the　sun　rise；　or　the　birds　flutter　about；　or　just　the　other　kids　converge　on　the

curb。

I　tried　to　convince　the　kids　at　the　bus　stop　to　climb　up　with　me；　even　a　little　ways；　but　all　of

them　said　they　didn't　want　to　get　dirty。　Turn　down　a

chance　to　feel　magic　for　fear　of　a　little　dirt？　I　couldn't　believe　it。

I'd　never　told　my　mother　about　climbing　the　tree。　Being　the　truly　sensible　adult　that　she　is；

she　would　have　told　me　it　was　too　dangerous。　My

brothers；　being　brothers；　wouldn't　have　cared。

That　left　my　father。　The　one　person　I　knew　would　understand。　Still；　I　was　afraid　to　tell　him。

He'd　tell　my　mother　and　pretty　soon　they'd　insist　that　I

stop。　So　I　kept　quiet；　kept　climbing；　and　felt　a　somewhat　lonely　joy　as　I　looked　out　over　the

world。

Then　a　few　months　ago　I　found　myself　talking　to　the　tree。　An　entire　conversation；　just　me　and

a　tree。　And　on　the　climb　down　I　felt　like　crying。　Why

didn't　I　have　someone　real