It’s Friday and though I’ve been missing the online connections with one of my favorite communities (#fmfparty on twitter–see you there?), I found my release today in five unscripted, unedited, un-analyzed moments of writing. Writers (and we’re all that) link it up over at Lisa Jo’s and show off your five minutes with a prompt most suiting to the golden days of fall:
It sits beside our driveway all gnarled branches and crisp leaves and probably a bit too close to the road for me to be letting them play.
But they climb it with the reckless abandon of childhood and when I lean out the glass door to call a child I’m invariably told she’s in the tree. Her hair is streaming down her back and her feet are bare a scant week before Thanksgiving in falling Georgia temps and she’s climbing her tree.
She waits in it when friends are expected and she hides in it when she’s been reprimanded for too much My Little Pony and not enough respect. She climbs it nimbly and ably and with far more comfort in her own limbs than I’ve ever had in mine.
She’s at home in that tree. It’s hers and she’s laid claim to a Bradford pear tree that’s out of line with the others but just perfect for her nearly four year old legs and toes to grasp hold of. It’s hers but she’ll share and she’ll call to me to come climb with her and I’ll wonder if the branches will groan under the weight of my 33 years and self-consciousness like they never have for the sweet simple release I see in my daughter.