Tall tree, little me.

I saw it from a distance, but it didn’t seem that big.  As I walked closer, it grew and grew, and then disappeared.   All I knew was that there was a tall tree behind me, but all I could see was part of its trunk; its damp, rough bark, making curvy paths up and down.  Paths too wide for one finger, but just right for my hand.  I tried to move it like a car over the brown tracks, but it just stuck.

What use is this fusty tree to me, when I’m this close.  The only way I know that it’s tall now, is because bigger people have told me.  The only way I’ll believe them is when I see it again for myself, from far away.    It was better that way, when it was a tall tree, now it’s just a bit of bark and I have nothing to do with it.  Bigger children will maybe write on the trunk, then lean against it, then forget it.  Bigger people will walk back, like me, and see it from far away, or make it small with a camera.

I’m fed up with this tree now.  Maybe one day I’ll like it again.  When I’m taller, and older.  But never as tall and as old as the thing towering behind me.

I will always be little when I stand here, beside this tall tree.

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