then. Ducks in the pond that’s frozen now. People rolling on the grass ’til their jeans turned green. Maybe I wouldn’t have shredded fingernails now if I had been in that stroller with Cherokee.
It looks more fun up there where Charlie is and easier to see what’s happening so I take off my skates, hide them in between some roots and shimmy up.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks from the branches. Mr. Flash.
“I’ve been climbing since I was little.”
“ Since you were little? What are you now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Since you were knee high to a grasshopper? A rug ratter? A baby witch baby?”
Where does he come up with this stuff?
“Aren’t your feet cold?”
Is he kidding? My curly toes are furling up even more than ever in my socks. “Yes.”
“Do you want to go back and get some shoes?”
“No.”
I can almost hear him shrug. “Well, you could probably get some good shots from up here.”
I look through my lens and there’s Charlie perched on a branch clutching with his fingers. He doesn’t seem too at home. He lets go for a second with one hand and points to the ground.
A woman with a baby on her back is looking through a trash can. The light is chilly and the color of lead. Even if I had color film it would be this black and white.
“Are you going to take a picture of her?” Charlie asks.
I dangle my legs and freezy feet over the branches and look down at the path. The woman is going through another trash can. I hold up my camera and she looks different all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just ’cause I feel different looking at her. I feel hungry, dizzy with hungry, sick with hungry even though I had breakfast this morning. I take my lunch—the loaf of French bread and the piece of cheese wrapped in a clean red bandana—and toss itdown. It lands on the scraggly grass by the woman’s feet. She turns and picks it up, peeks inside and slips it into her jacket like she doesn’t want anybody to see and then she goes away with her baby. I press my face against tree bark feeling the rough edges ridging my skin.
I follow Charlie over a bridge of branches into the next tree—a small gray one. I feel strong holding on to the limbs full of sap like blood. I think about lanka love goddesses with lots of arms. I want to hold on forever.
“Have you ever seen a tree spirit?” Charlie asks me and I shake my head.
“But I’ve thought about them. I used to look at trees and try to make up what their spirits were like.”
“If you were one you’d be the spirit of those Weetzie-trees—you know, the ones with the purple flowers that get all over everything in the spring in L.A? They fell in the T-bird when the top was down but my little girl liked it. She said it made the T-bird like a just-married-mobile.”
“I bet the spirit of this tree is an old woman—real smart—who talks to the squirrels and the moon,” I say. I want him to come back, pay attention to me.
“Hey,” Charlie says. “Look. Way up there.”
I don’t see anything.
“Through your camera.”
In the highest branches a pair of legs swing back and forth. A woman with bird bones and skin like autumn leaves. She blinks her milky opal-sky eyes. Then she’s gone.
Did I see that?
“You were right,” Charlie says. “What about that one?” He points to a big muscle tree.
“A warrior dude with a hawk nose and raven-wing hair.”
Just when I say it I spot somebody through my camera in the strong tree. A dark sleekster guy with tangly snarl-ball nests full of birds on his bare chunkster shoulders. He disappears into the top branches.
“Pretty good,” says Charles.
“Let’s follow him.”
I have to go down on the ground to scramble back up into the next tree, and by the time I get there tree man is gone. Then I see something dangling in the branches hidden by the few leaves that are still clinging on. It’s a rope ladder slinking from a square cut in some wooden boards. I hoist
It looks more fun up there where Charlie is and easier to see what’s happening so I take off my skates, hide them in between some roots and shimmy up.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks from the branches. Mr. Flash.
“I’ve been climbing since I was little.”
“ Since you were little? What are you now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Since you were knee high to a grasshopper? A rug ratter? A baby witch baby?”
Where does he come up with this stuff?
“Aren’t your feet cold?”
Is he kidding? My curly toes are furling up even more than ever in my socks. “Yes.”
“Do you want to go back and get some shoes?”
“No.”
I can almost hear him shrug. “Well, you could probably get some good shots from up here.”
I look through my lens and there’s Charlie perched on a branch clutching with his fingers. He doesn’t seem too at home. He lets go for a second with one hand and points to the ground.
A woman with a baby on her back is looking through a trash can. The light is chilly and the color of lead. Even if I had color film it would be this black and white.
“Are you going to take a picture of her?” Charlie asks.
I dangle my legs and freezy feet over the branches and look down at the path. The woman is going through another trash can. I hold up my camera and she looks different all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just ’cause I feel different looking at her. I feel hungry, dizzy with hungry, sick with hungry even though I had breakfast this morning. I take my lunch—the loaf of French bread and the piece of cheese wrapped in a clean red bandana—and toss itdown. It lands on the scraggly grass by the woman’s feet. She turns and picks it up, peeks inside and slips it into her jacket like she doesn’t want anybody to see and then she goes away with her baby. I press my face against tree bark feeling the rough edges ridging my skin.
I follow Charlie over a bridge of branches into the next tree—a small gray one. I feel strong holding on to the limbs full of sap like blood. I think about lanka love goddesses with lots of arms. I want to hold on forever.
“Have you ever seen a tree spirit?” Charlie asks me and I shake my head.
“But I’ve thought about them. I used to look at trees and try to make up what their spirits were like.”
“If you were one you’d be the spirit of those Weetzie-trees—you know, the ones with the purple flowers that get all over everything in the spring in L.A? They fell in the T-bird when the top was down but my little girl liked it. She said it made the T-bird like a just-married-mobile.”
“I bet the spirit of this tree is an old woman—real smart—who talks to the squirrels and the moon,” I say. I want him to come back, pay attention to me.
“Hey,” Charlie says. “Look. Way up there.”
I don’t see anything.
“Through your camera.”
In the highest branches a pair of legs swing back and forth. A woman with bird bones and skin like autumn leaves. She blinks her milky opal-sky eyes. Then she’s gone.
Did I see that?
“You were right,” Charlie says. “What about that one?” He points to a big muscle tree.
“A warrior dude with a hawk nose and raven-wing hair.”
Just when I say it I spot somebody through my camera in the strong tree. A dark sleekster guy with tangly snarl-ball nests full of birds on his bare chunkster shoulders. He disappears into the top branches.
“Pretty good,” says Charles.
“Let’s follow him.”
I have to go down on the ground to scramble back up into the next tree, and by the time I get there tree man is gone. Then I see something dangling in the branches hidden by the few leaves that are still clinging on. It’s a rope ladder slinking from a square cut in some wooden boards. I hoist
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