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