r　the　view。　I　kept

thinking　of　what　it　felt　like　to　be　up　so　high　in　that　tree。

I　wanted　to　see　it；　to　feel　it；　again。　And　again。

………　Page　18………

It　wasn't　long　before　I　wasn't　afraid　of　being　up　so　high　and　found　the　spot　that　became　my

spot。　I　could　sit　there　for　hours；　just　looking　out　at　the

world。　Sunsets　were　amazing。　Some　days　they'd　be　purple　and　pink；　some　days　they'd　be　a

blazing　orange；　setting　fire　to　clouds　across　the

horizon。

It　was　on　a　day　like　that　when　my　father's　notion　of　the　whole　being　greater　than　the　sum　of

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　t