he　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　to　talk　to？　Why　didn't　I　have　a　best　friend　like　everyone　else

seemed　to？　Sure；　there　were　kids　I　knew　at　school；　but　none

of　them　were　close　friends。　They'd　have　no　interest　in　climbing　the　tree。　In　smelling　the

sunshine。

That　night　after　dinner　my　father　went　outside　to　paint。　In　the　cold　of　the　night；　under　the

glare　of　the　porch　light；　he　went　out　to　put　the　finishing

touches　on　a　sunrise　he'd　been　working　on。

I　got　my　jacket　and　went　out　to　sit　beside　him；　quiet　as　a　mouse。

After　a　few　minutes　he　said；　“What's　on　your　mind；　sweethear