Creative Nonfiction Writer, Fiction Writer
One afternoon, Wyatt and I stood among the blossoms. It was chilly, turning gray, and in the distance spring peepers sang in the marsh behind our neighbor’s house. I bent a branch and let Wyatt peak inside a blossom. He touched a finger to its creamy white center, its gold-crowned florets. Then he held out his arms to me. He wanted up. On a branch nearly as high as my head, I sat him up and let him find his balance and for a moment took away my hands. He giggled and looked around. When finally he wanted down, I took him down. But then he wanted up again, so I shrugged and picked him up. I sat him on the branch, took my hands away. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world to sit there, taller than me, king of the hillside, king of the sky. For the next half hour, it was a game we played. He demanded to be lifted into the tree, then demanded to be taken down. Over and over on that chilly afternoon, peepers singing, pale pink blossoms floating in the air around us — because our trauma wasn’t the only story — I lifted him into the dogwood tree.
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Last updated: Jan 22, 2018