just a nod。
He dragged over some potting soil; pierced the bag with the spade; and shoveled dirt into the
hole。 Then he disappeared。 And when he came
back; he wrestled a big burlapped root ball across the lawn; the branches of a plant rustling
back and forth as he moved。
My dad joined me on the couch and peeked out the window; too。
“A tree?” I whispered。 “Hes planting a tree?”
“Id help him; but he says he has to do this himself。”
“Is it a …” The words stuck in my throat。
I didnt really need to ask; though; and he knew he didnt need to answer。 I could tell from the
shape of the leaves; from the texture of the trunk。
This was a sycamore tree。
I flipped around on the couch and just sat。
A sycamore tree。
Bryce finished planting the tree; watered it; cleaned everything up; and then went home。 And
I just sat there; not knowing what to do。
Ive been sitting here for hours now; just staring out the window at the tree。 It may be little
now; but itll grow; day by day。 And a hundred years from
now itll reach clear over the rooftops。 Itll be miles in the air! Already I can tell—its going to
be an amazing; magnificent tree。
And I cant help wondering; a hundred years from now will a kid climb it the way I climbed the
one up on Collier Street? Will she see the things I
did? Will she feel the way I did?
Will it change her life the way it changed mine?
I also cant stop wondering about Bryce。 What has he been trying to tell me? Whats he
thinking about?
……… Page 92………
I know hes home because he looks out his window from time to time。 A little while ago he put
his hand up and waved。 And I couldnt help it—I gave a little wave back。
So maybe I should go over there and thank him for the tree。 Maybe we could sit on the porch
and talk。 It just occurred to me that in all the years weve known each other; weve never
done that。
Never really talked。
Maybe my mothers right。 Maybe there is more to Bryce Loski than I know。
Maybe its time to meet him in the proper light。