I watched her stand at the base of an oak. Hands pressed against its bark, she stared at the moss-covered branches while the other kids played on the swings. She then hopped between roots, whistling to the changing pitches of a cardinal’s song. While the other kids cheered and screamed, she sifted through wet leaves for frogs and salamanders.
When I was young, I had climbed the birches beyond our yard. It was easy to forget when each tree was a world and each leaf was a discovery. Watching how she followed beetles across toppled logs reminded me of that world. Of the trunks I climbed when my mother wasn’t looking and the candy, I stashed away for the birds and chipmunks. Back before a tree was just a tree, and the strip of woods separating my house from the highway was an endless forest ready for exploration.
It was a world as big as it was small. One that I can no longer visit. Now, watching her move under the shade of the mossy branches, I can capture a brief glimpse of that world. Gone for me but not for her. She has that world all to herself.
Where the forest met the park, an excavator had packed dirt above a once exposed waterline, the soil soft and dark. The depression was deep. She had no idea what had caused it. I heard her say something about the King of Squirrels and his treasure before she scaled the stone wall that bordered the park like a tiny mountain climber. Back then, I would have searched for the King of Squirrels alongside her. Back in my world, that was now hers.
