Word Count: 378
I wanted to grow up to be a ballerina. Bobby next door wanted to grow up to be an oak tree. I never reached my goal but Bobby did.
My mother enrolled me in dance class and winced through every recital. Bobby simply refused to come back inside one warm summer night, planted his bare feet in the ground, held his arms up in stout branches and grew.
I admired his commitment. His willingness to adapt. Drinking his milk through his toes. Sleeping through the harsh New England winters to come back taller and stronger each spring.
We still played together, like catch and jump rope. Tag and hide-and-go-seek were impossible. I’d tell him everything I learned at school each day. “Don’t you miss it?” I asked. He shook his head no.
Bobby was a good listener. I told him about each boy that I had a crush on. Each one that eventually broke my heart. I’d sit in his shade and cry and cry and he’d stand and listen. Then he’d say something silly to make me laugh. Carol, look, I’m a weeping willow! he’d whisper through the wind. His branches would droop leaves that waved like tiny flags. He was a good friend.
I went off to college. I’d come home for breaks and slip out to see him. I’d talk about literature and philosophy. I wasn’t even sure he could hear me, he was so tall. Where are the ears on a tree? Eventually I got married. Then my folks died, and I came back to clean out the house. And say goodbye to Bobby forever.
The weather understood the emotion of that finality of moment. Storm clouds moved in on the empty stage of my childhood. Memories misted in soft curtains of rain. I suddenly wanted to dance for him. It was the only thing I felt I could give back for all the years that he’d listened. Been my friend. So I danced for him, the best I could do. The lightning was my spotlight. The thunder my music. And Bobby applauded, his leaves an audience of clapping hands.
I bowed and looked up as he swayed in the strengthening wind. Ran for my life as he toppled and fell.
