I Remember

I remember the tree in my grandparents’ back yard that I used to climb.  I don’t remember what kind of tree it was.  I remember it had white flowers on it in the spring.  I remember when I was small I would sit on its branches and sing lullabies to my baby dolls.  I remember when I was older I would lie on its branches and read for hours.  I remember going to the library and checking out books that I would later read from the tree.  I remember swinging upside down from the strongest limb.  I remember my grandmother yelling at me that I was going to break a branch from her favorite tree.  I remember the summer I spent most of my time climbing that tree.  I remember the cuts and scrapes the tree gave me as I climbed its branches.  I remember how much I loved to be outside.  I remember the smell of summer rain. I remember my sap stained hands and broken fingernails.  I remember my mother rolling her eyes every time she saw me in that tree.  I remember my grandfather’s smiles when he told me that I reminded him of himself and his brothers and sisters when they were children on his parents’ farm.  I don’t remember worrying about whether or not my clothes got torn or dirty.  I don’t remember caring when I had leaves and bark in my hair.  I remember climbing out of the tree to eat lunch with my grandparents.  I remember warm cornbread with buttermilk.  I remember fried okra and meatloaf.  I remember my grandmother teaching me how to cook.  I remember burning my hands on the oven rack.  I remember my grandmother rubbing the leaf torn from her aloe plant against my tender skin.  I remember my father promising to come eat lunch with us if I helped made his favorite meal.  I remember my grandmother carrying me to the grocery store and buying everything we needed to make spaghetti.  I remember the red juices that ran down my hands as I squeezed the meat into meatballs.  I remember the muffled comments my grandfather made when I said my father was coming for lunch.  I remember my grandmother meeting my excitement with silence.  I remember setting the table.  I remember waiting.  I don’t remember my father coming.  I remember his excuses.  I remember climbing the tree in my grandparents’ backyard when I was upset.  I remember the color of the sky.