A beautiful old tree collapsed over the creek in the park like a bridge for all the critters, esp. the squirrels to hide, play and have a shortcut crossing the creek to the other side. While scrutinizing the fallen tree workers had sawed in preparation to remove it, I was introduced to a little fellow, a special needs person, on a small bicycle. I had seen him around town with the same black, shiny face that was always smiling, always happy. Finally, I spoke to him about the tree he wondered about, told him my version, and he was satisfied. I told him the tree must have fallen during the cold spell we recently had around Christmas not really knowing if that was true or false. He told me his name, a complicated name I cannot recall because it never registered in my brain, nor could I even pronounce it the way he stuttered.
I did not talk to him much longer and jumped down off the tree and finally left after biding him goodbye...
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AuthorCHARLES PEARSON Archives
July 2025
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