During its early years, I could leap
over that tree, kick my bicycling legs over
the top branch and scream my fool head
off because I thought for sure I was flying.
I ate fruit to keep my strength up, fuzzy
peaches and branch-scuffed plums cooled
in the refrigerator. From the kitchen chair
he brought out in the evening, Grandpa
would scold, “Hijo, what’s the matta with
you? You gonna break it.”
By the third year, the tree was as tall
as I, its branches casting a meager shadow
on the ground. I sat beneath the shade,