The Smooth Spot

The branch was worn pale where a thousand hands

had gripped it, settled into it,

learned its curve the way I once knew

the exact crook of my knees

would fit into that V of bark and wood,

that specific notch the tree had offered

to anyone small enough to want it.

I was maybe ten.

The bark was warm.

I remember that.

The kid today was just sitting there,

not climbing up or down,

just existing in the place between ground and sky,

and I recognized it—

that moment when you realize

the tree is big enough to hold you,

that nothing's going to break,

that the only real distance

is between where you are

and the ground you forgot about.

I didn't climb anymore after a certain age.

Not because I couldn't.

Just because I learned that there were better ways

to spend an afternoon,

that wanting to be up in something

was the kind of thing

kids did before they learned

how far down is.

The bark's still light where all those hands

have worn through the lichen,

still smooth from the grip of people

who didn't know yet

that some spaces get smaller as you grow,

that you only get to be the right size

for certain things once,

and then the tree is just a tree,

and the branch is too low,

and your knees are too long,

and you've moved on to things that matter,

which is just another way of saying

you've stopped fitting anywhere

the way you used to.