I don’t know when I decided to start climbing the mango tree in my grandparent’s front yard or why I decided it would be a good idea to hang upside down from one of the lower boughs. But once I learned I could do it, I never wanted to stop. Even though the bark scraped the back of my knees raw, even though there were always fire ants crawling on the trunk, I wanted to live in this tree.
There was a power in knowing I could climb it. That I could scale the limbs. That I could suspend myself as long as I wanted. That I was strong enough to do it.
I loved the gasps it drew from my mother.
I was going to snap my neck, she assured me. I would crack my skull wide open.
It didn’t seem that high even then. I could touch the grass with the tips of my fingers as I hung there. So it never really worried me. It was easy to see she was bluffing. How worried could she possibly be, snapping photos with her rectangular 110 while my little sister posed beside me with a Cabbage Patch Doll?
At school, I sucked at sports. I was a slow runner. Instead of catching rubber balls that were sent flying in my direction, I cringed and dodged. I couldn’t pitch. I was a lousy kicker. I was always picked last.
But I could climb the rope all the way to the top.
And I could scale this tree.
My tree.
Until my grandfather cut it down to put in a paved driveway.
It had stopped producing fruit. I don’t remember if I cried. I’d probably moved on to bigger things.
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The prompt this week was to share a favorite photo, the moment and the meaning behind it.
If only I was still that limber.
