February 8, 2010
Whenever I climb a tree,
I think of that californian summer, when
we tangled our limbs in the
web-like mesh standing in your
front yard, as it has always been.
And without the need to hold on to
each other, our hands extended to
pluck her leaves. as we ascended
through the branches

I do not remember if the tree
had apples, but I do remember my pride in
climbing higher than you, and the fear of
snapping branches, or reaching too high with
arms too fragile, and tumbling in a mess onto your
blanket of grass

I often wonder -
what happened to
your voice? I can no longer
hear you, which makes me believe
we hardly spoke at all, but
that can’t be true, ‘cause
children just talk too much

I often wonder what happened to you

That summer night, we
dropped back down onto the
green blanket, and our mothers took us to
Chuck E Cheese’s where we clumsily tried to
win tickets, and as we chewed our
pepperoni pizzas, you(r mother) handed me a
goodbye present, which I had hoped was
Pokemon-related, but was really a vcr of
“Spirited Away”, which I have watched
at least 15 times since

I wish I had given you my tickets
that night, ‘cause then you could have gotten the
prize you wanted, and I never put them to use, must’ve
lost them! in the garbage can, how
selfish of me

A few days later, I climbed onto an
airplane, took me 2906 miles away
from you, reunited my mother and me to
my father, who only scolded me for
climbing trees, ‘cause there’s always that chance of
tumbling onto prickly green blankets

Now we’ve both grown up, and wrapped new
rings of bark around us, so no matter how hard
I try, I cannot find you anymore

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