The Branch

I was eleven.

The bark was rough against my palms,

the kind of rough that stays in your hands

for days.

The branch bent slightly

under my weight,

which was the first time I understood

that things give.

The ground looked farther

than it actually was.

I fell from the lowest branch—

barely a fall, really,

more of a drop,

and my ankle made a sound

I'd never heard before.

I didn't tell anyone.

I walked it off for three days,

told myself it was fine,

that asking for help

was the same as admitting

I wasn't ready

for heights,

for branches,

for the risk of looking foolish

in front of other kids.

Now I don't climb anything.