The Apricot Tree

The Apricot Tree

It stood ‘way in the back of the yard
behind the little two-story yellow house
and in the summer it wore a heavy cloak of dark green leaves,
so thick that no one could see through them
and high up, between two sturdy branches
someone had nailed a board,
just wide enough for a little seven-year-old girl to sit on -
just long enough for her to lie down on
if she laid down very slowly and carefully.
It was her special hiding place.

She loved to read.
Books were her best friends.
And when she was lonely, with no one to play with
or when her little sister with the naturally curly hair
(who she knew was everyone’s favorite)
followed her everywhere and teased her and wouldn’t leave her alone
or when her mother was sick-in-bed for many days
or when she wanted to escape from tears and angry words
she would climb up into her tree where no one could see
and sit on the hidden board and read her stories, over and over –
and then, very carefully, lie down on the board and,
gazing up through the canopy of green
to patches of bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds,
would dream herself into her well-loved tales,
becoming a beautiful princess, a pioneer child on the prairie,
or an ordinary girl with a magic carpet that carried her to far-away lands.

The little yellow house has long been gone. The apricot tree is gone too.
But in her memory,
she can still climb up into its branches
and find the magic
of her special hiding place.