barefoot and wild

an ode to my childhood tree.

they say
the trees you grew up with
have not forgotten you

my tree was tall
stretched so high to the skies
i couldn't even climb her

she towered over our two-story home
the one riddled with projects we started
but never finished in the seven years we lived there

she stood sturdy in our backyard
flat and expansive
as minnesota tends to be

i used to run around back there
barefoot and wild
drinking water from the hose

curly hair frizzed
from minnesota's summer humidity
all tanned skin and too long limbs

and i can't help but wonder
if she would still recognize me
taller, wiser, and grayer

i haven't the chubby cheeks
or the toothy grin
or the twinkling eyes of childhood anymore

would she still know me
through the heartbreak
and the pain

because, in so many ways,
i feel
fundamentally different

in so many ways
i feel
like i don't quite recognize myself

but they say
the trees you grew up with
have not forgotten you

and i
haven't forgotten her
either.