The tree just stood there. What kind of tree? You’ll find out soon enough. But it just stood there, so I turned my restless eyes and hands to the creek, moving, wet, smellable and populated. The creek cut deeply into the Earth, as if someone had cut out a narrow strip to craft a belt or rope. When I stood in the center, the walls rose on both sides as high as my nine-year-old hips. Crouching down, I could vanish from the face of the Earth. A fortunate discovery. But the creek was also quite narrow and easily straddled with my thin, coltish legs. So, I ignored the tree at first and played in the creek, skipping stones downstream, trying not to hit the walls. Catching guppies, even eating one once when I was hungry, and covering my feet with tiny pebbles to feel the current wash them away. And crouching. Invisible. The rushing water was not loud enough to drown out the dinner bell, though.

It wasn’t until late spring that the tree spoke to me. Shouted, actually. From one day to the next, it exploded into bloom. Billions of tiny whitish blossoms. Out of nowhere, it seemed. But I really hadn’t been paying attention. Now I was. Even the conveniently low branches were flowering like mad. How was I to climb into this white, wondrous shelter without damaging them?

Because climb it, I must.

You mustn’t think I completely ignored the tree all this time. A living member of my private world, of course I had touched it and taken its measure. Here’s what I knew:

The bark was very rough, with tiny thorns and prickly tree moss. It hurt to run my hands over it. I liked that and imagined how useful it would be to have skin painful to touch.

I knew its girth was nothing spectacular. When I hugged it close, I lost sight of my hands but my fingertips did not touch on the other side, still I could sense them wiggling not far from one another. Once, I tried to uproot the tree, I was that angry. It bore my rage kindly.

And I eventually found out it was a persimmon tree. And about 18 feet high. I had asked my teacher at school, and she showed it to me in a book. So now you know, too.

So, the persimmon tree was in bloom and all kinds of things came to my attention. As if the blossoms opened my heart to this being I had so often swept past on my way to the creek.  Shaded by towering cedar trees on the other side of the creek, the persimmon tree did not receive the warmth it needed to grow straight and strong. Even at nine years old I knew how that felt. The tyrants of this world are indifferent to those at their mercy.

Not tall, not broad, not beautiful or encouraged, the persimmon tree must have been amazed that it had lived this long. Despite the thorns, the rough bark, and rickety branches I doubted would hold even my feather weight, I began to climb. I brought what kindness I possessed but also a great deal of caution. You never knew when a branch might snap, or a thorn suddenly shift and bore into a bare foot. But I did not think this was intentional. More like a reflex to safeguard from real or imagined harm. Humans duck and flinch. My persimmon tree repositioned her thorns. Because you could never anticipate when pain would slash into your innocence – anywhere, any time. Life was precarious, so I didn’t hold it against the persimmon tree when she lashed out. Yes, she was a she. As survivors so often are.

After that first time, I climbed the persimmon tree daily and she came to welcome me, or the calluses on my feet and hands simply grew hard. A bit of both, I think. Say what you will about the persimmon tree’s unwelcoming demeanor, she was generous to a fault. All her strength and powerful failings went into producing fruit, fruit, fruit. It was late summer and millions of orangish little globes were ripening, drawing bees, birds, squirrels, ants, wasps, hornets and me. We feasted. We took communion. We stayed out of each other’s way. There was plenty to go around. At night the hedgehogs, deer, foxes and other night creatures came to clean up the mess on the ground. By the end of October there would nothing left.

I was nine years old, then ten, then eleven. Life did not get any easier or kinder for many, many years. But my first and only friend, my deciduous partner in this crime called life, held me in her branches, fed me with her fruit and tickled me with her branches. What did I do for her? I loved her.

This small contribution from Ramey Rieger is an attempt to find the blog’s capacity. So far so good.