E. G. Silverman
Four Leads
Yesterday, alone, I drove for many hours through the geography
of my childhood, to the house where I was young. I wanted to see an old
playmate of mine. But it was gone. Gone like time. Only a stump left. A fat
round stump of concentric circles. And my memory of it.
I was a tomboy. I loved to climb trees, feel the rough bark
rubbing against the fabric of my denim overalls, listen to the leaves rustling
around my head like angels, and breathe deep the scent of the wood and the sap.
I was comforted by these beings that nestled me in their arms.
When I was a little girl, a grand old sugar maple stood
guard beside our house. Its green fingers tickled my bedroom window. My mommy
told me the tree was a ladder to heaven. She said that if I climbed too high in
the maple, I would find myself up in the sky and unable to return. I didn’t
believe her, but I steered clear of that tree anyway, just to be on the safe
side. Every day I would gaze at the tree, beckoning me like a gateway to a
magical land.