No one told him that 63 year old men can't climb trees

The tree had likely never been climbed before. There was no reason to climb it really. It was one of the few trees in the forest that bore neither fruit nor purpose besides its pure existence. But today we had a reason. High in the branches above, a long narrow vine wrapped and slithered its way across the canopy. It was this vine, we suspected, that hosted our silkworms. 

He started with two trees that were more than a leg’s distance apart and impossibly smooth and branchless. The first, a mere sapling despite its ungainly height, was still hungrily stretching its branches towards the sky, not daring to call itself a tree until it reached the sunlit canopy. The second, already visibly behind in the race for light, was a non-weight bearing bramble of shoots that hadn’t yet decided amongst itself which limb would be promoted to “trunk” status, and which would remain a mere branch among the vertically-challenged members of the understory.

Of the two of us, I seemed to be the only one who noticed that he was climbing, for the way he approached the tree was as if someone gently tilted the axis of the world at precisely the right moment; rearranging the plane of the tree as the new horizon. There wasn’t a millisecond’s hesitation as his feet left the ground and walked onto the bark. The twelve-year old girl in me wanted to tell him that I too had conquered my fair share of trees in my life, and launch into the canopy on my own silkworm quest, but when the time came, I felt more like a second-grade dodge ball winner watching an Olympic athlete. 

The tree’s slightest flaws became his purchase; a single toe in the notch of a former branch, the ball of his foot balanced on a ripple in the bark, fingers caressing a knot in the wood. Dancing back and forth between the two scrawny trees, he rose through the air as if gravity did not apply to him, all the while, with an air of respect for the world that suggested he would fall the ground on purpose just to save Gravity the disgrace of having its rules so easily flouted. The saplings did not bend to his weight, but danced with him, gently swaying back and forth as equal partners, as old friends reunited. 

When he arrived at the top of the world, I felt like something magical had happened, but he simply leaned out over the leaves, gently encouraging them upward with his presence, and examined the vine that often hosts our silkworms. When he was satisfied that there were none hiding amongst the delicate flowers, he glanced down; for the first time acknowledging that he had left the ground below. With that, he wrapped his body into the tree’s wild branching shoots and descended through the air, the tree gently bending down with him in a respectful bow. 

I promptly decided not to tell him that I had ever climbed a tree before, and silently vowed to practice when I got home.