See that little girl on the right? The one with the dimples and missing front teeth? That’s me. The one next to me, that’s my little sis. We’re perched on the overgrown elm in our front lawn. My parents always said there were two ways to scale that tree: The first way (mine) was to climb branch by branch to the top. The second (my sister’s) was to sit on the lowest branch, waiting for the tree to grow. I was too impatient to sit and wait, so the tree-climbing became an adventure entirely my own.

Plucky and fearless, that was me, an incurable tomboy. I climbed any tree in sight and grew proud of scrapes and scars from the millions of rough ascents, descents. Bruised arms, calloused hands. Tumbles were quickly forgotten. Tenacious. Even familiar trees weren’t the same the second time around; there was always a different way to the top.

But, you know, I think I must have tempted fate long enough. Just one shift, one slip from a particularly high branch. One fall harder than my eight-year-old body would’ve liked. One dislocated shoulder taught me the importance of common sense, of caution, of gravity. I am a quick learner. I did not climb with my weak arm.

See that little girl?

I miss her.