Once upon a cherry tree

When I was a little girl, I climbed a cherry tree. I skinned my summer sunned knees on rough bark, and reaching branches. I climbed until the Earth below fell away, until the light snuck through leaf mazes, and lay gently on my face. I wore the scent of new cherries on my skin. Unripe, I spit them to the ground, listening for the gentle tap as they hit the grass. Squirrels ran up to steal them. Hind leg sitting, they peeked left to right, then spun the cherry expertly in their tiny paws and snacked on the buffet I'd given them.

Inside the house I imagined my mama getting food ready for lunch. Oh she'd be opening up peanut butter jars, spooning red and grape jelly, maybe cutting off crusts. There would be milk pouring, and chips crunching.

Surely she'll notice I'm missing.

Even with the hum of a house full of kids (in those days Mama ran a daycare out of our home).

So I sat. Dragonflies buzzed, a tractor whirred, birds argued, and still, I sat.

But she didn't come. The sun slipped lower in the sky. I rubbed my arms to ward off the sadness creeping up my skin.

I was so hungry. Hours must have passed. And no one noticed I was gone. Infuriated, incensed, angry, I scurried down the tree and marched up, pressing my face against the window. I could see kids milling about, some sitting down eating, some waiting. And there, on the wall, the clock read 12:20.

I had only been outside for twenty minutes. Slinking into the kitchen Mama peered over her shoulder at me, "Peanut butter and jelly alright?"