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He got me down and he took me home; only I couldn't stay there。 I couldn't stand the sound

of chain saws in the distance。

So Dad took me with him to work; and while he put up a block wall; I sat in his truck and cried。

I must've cried for two weeks straight。 Oh; sure; I went to school and I functioned the best I

could; but I didn't go there on the bus。 I started riding

my bike instead; taking the long way so I wouldn't have to go up to Collier Street。 Up to a pile

of sawdust that used to be the earth's most

magnificent sycamore tree。

Then one evening when I was locked up in my room; my father came in with something

under a towel。 I could tell it was a painting because that's

how he transports the important ones when he shows them in the park。 He sat down; resting

the painting on the floor in front of him。 “I always liked

that tree of yours;” he said。 “Even before you told me about it。”

“Oh; Dad; it's okay。 I'll get over it。”

“No; Julianna。 No; you won't。”

I started crying。 “It was just a tree…。”

“I never want you to convince yourself of that。 You and I both know it isn't true。”

“But Dad…”

“Bear with me a minute; would you?” He took a deep breath。 “I want the spirit of that tree to

be with you always。 I want you to remember how you

felt when you were up there。” He hesitated a moment; then handed me the painting。 “So I

made this for you。”

I pulled off the towel; and there was my tree。 My beautiful; majestic sycamore tree。 Through

the branches he'd painted the fire of sunrise; and it

seemed to me I could feel the wind。 And way up in the tree was a tiny girl looking off into the

distance; her cheek

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