The Red Maple at 14 River Road

I slid into the kitchen in my bleached white socks as my mother sways to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon at the stove. The amber glow of 6 am melts across the kitchen; the bountiful red maple tree leaves are on the brink of draping across the lawn. I plopped myself down on the couch to watch my cartoons and enjoy my buttery pancake breakfast.

10 years since the move, I drive by. My brother has since sold the house as well, and a new family parks its car in the cobblestone driveway. The tree looks small and dull. I don’t remember it ever looking that way as a child.

Stumbling down the maple out front, for what seems to be the hundredth time, I add another scar to my legs, pausing and darting right back up to admire the boys playing soccer next door.

I still can’t stand the look of my bare legs in short dresses.

We gather green leaves to concoct a “soup” of leaves and flowers. We giggle and serve our

concoction to my older brother. He holds the spoon to his mouth and rubs his stomach, laughing and leaving a raving review of me and Grace’s “restaurant

Grace and I lost touch after a fight over a mutual crush on William in the 3rd grade who we made

a pact neither of us could marry. We signed the contract in my pink Barbie diary at our 4:00 meeting spot after school, under the maple tree.

I desperately itched to roam the block, or I itched because of the cheap polyester of my witch costume. I stood under the tree waiting for the neighborhood kids to gather in front of my house to begin our hunting route for the fancy full-size candy bars. Julie’s mom threw a jacket over her shoulders, destroying the essence of her Princess Ariel dress.

The cat got out and must have attacked him that morning. My eyes burned with tears as I ran to my mother’s arms; I had never seen anything like this before. A wild rabbit was torn apart under the tree. This sight caused me to avoid the tree for a while… as well as the cat.

My father tossed the rake on the lawn, giving up on the task. He despised cleaning up the leaves.

The boxes were packed up and scattered; there was no Christmas tree that year. My father gathers me and a few lingering strands of lights to drape upon the bare winter branches of the maple tree out front. A makeshift tree will have to satisfy this year since my brother and his wife already began moving in their belongings as we prepare to hand over the key to them.

The clean pink bedroom, with the beautiful view of the maple tree was destroyed. I walked in from school and there were strange men painting my walls. My brother hired painters and my father packed all my belongings, with no chance to say goodbye. I picked up a small pink paint chip and slid it into my pocket before I walked out into the hall in shock.

I picked a leaf from the front lawn when no one was looking.

Both the paint chip and dry leaf reside in the current scrapbook under my bed.

Our new house had no tree for me to climb.