November 2017

I open my eyes and hear a Song Thrush outside. When I was little, my grandfather taught me the names of all the local birds and how to recognize them. His favourite was the Tree Swallow. He loved its shiny green feathers and the way it swooped and flew in the sky. I glance at the clock on the wall; it says 6:30am. I get slowly out of bed, not wanting to go to school. Last Thanksgiving, Mrs. Kent asked the class to write an essay about something for which we were thankful. Most kids wrote about being thankful for having TVs or the latest computer games. I wrote about my grandfather. He died in October. He was my best friend. We would go to the apple orchard together to eat apples while we bird-watched. But this autumn we didn’t get to go because he was sick and a couple of weeks later he died. My life crumbled, like an old wall too tired to keep standing up, once he was gone. In the essay I spilled my feelings (sadness, fear, dread, anger, questions, spite, longing, and darkness) onto the paper, not knowing that the teacher was going to read them outloud. So, when she did, it kind of scared the class and startled the teacher. They didn’t know how to react to what I wrote so they started to avoid me even more than before. I was never one of the group, but when Grandpa was alive it didn’t matter because he was the only friend I needed. I drag on a pair of jeans and my orange turtleneck. I shuffle down the corridor into the kitchen where Mum is putting a bowl of oatmeal on the table for me. “Sorry Sweetie, but I have to go to work,” she calls as she shuts the front door. “Have a good day!” “Bye,” I mumble in response. It’s not her fault she has to go to work so early. Since Grandpa died, I’ve gotten used to being alone. I pour myself a glass of apple juice and eat my oatmeal. The sun has just started to golden the sky, rays of light seeping through the curtains. I make my lunch, grab my backpack and pull on my red and orange poncho. Out of the house the cool breeze caresses my nose and cheeks. I get my bike out of the garage. It’s leaf green and rather muddy. In the spring air, on my bike, with the wind whipping my face, I feel like a bird. My grandfather used to say I was like a Tree Swallow, flying free, soaring into the clouds. After riding down the hill I go straight on a dusty path, then I turn right onto a track that runs the side of a field. By now the sun has really started spreading its light on the world. Jumping off my bike, I leave it leaning against a bush. I throw my backpack next to it and rush to my oak in the middle of the field. Its gigantic arms are waving at me. I wave back and climb up to the first big branch. Taking the next branch in my hands, I swing myself up. Up and up I go. Leaves brushing my hair and branches scratching my face. Reaching the top is always the best, the reason I climb my oak every day. To see the world as if I am on top of it. I’m sitting on the very last branch (it’s a bit flimsy but I don’t weigh much). From up here I can see the rolling hills and the mountains beyond. As I look over the hills the cool wind ruffles my short brown hair. The wind up here is so much nicer than the wind down below. It’s always cool and carries the scent of the hills with it. I found this tree just after my grandfather died. At first I used it as a hide-away, and I still do, but now I come here to hide from the world, not just my grief. I wish I could let go of the branches and fly into the clouds. Not a worry in the world, nobody to tease me, not having to endure school where everyone avoids me. I would be free from all my troubles. I stay up for a long time and then look at my watch. Shoot! I’m going to be late. I scramble down the tree. “Ow!” A branch scratches my cheek. It stings. Shoot, shoot, shoot. I run full pelt to my bike, grabbing my bag as I launch myself onto it. I ride as fast as I can, hoping the bell won’t ring before I get to class. I pull open the classroom door just as the bell rings. My hair is windswept, my face is flushed and my cheek still stings a little but the man behind the desk doesn’t seem to notice. “Glad you made it,” he says. “Please take your seat.” I sit, wondering what’s going on. The man with the awesome ponytail behind the desk isn’t Mrs Kent. Someone kicks my chair and someone else whispers but then everybody quiets down as the man at the front starts to speak. “Good morning everybody. I’m going to be your replacement teacher for the rest of the year because Mrs. Kent has just had her baby. My name is Spencer Torents. I love words, dark coffee, and guitars. I also just got back from a month long bicycle trip in New Zealand. Now, I’d like to get to know you guys…” He’s probably going to get us to write a page about ourselves so he can “get to know us.” It’s not that I don’t like writing (I love writing!), it’s just that I’ve learned not to put anything real onto paper. “So, for homework I would like each and every one of you to make or bring something in that represents you.