There was a tree that stood outside my high school English classroom. It had low branches. A bunch of us, between classes or when we had a free period, would haul ourselves up there and find a comfortable perch. The best time to do it was early spring, before the leaves came back, but when it was warm enough outside and the tree itself seemed to be warming from the inside, readying itself to wake up. We sat around and shot the shit, often getting the odd look from others for whom climbing trees between filling in university application forms seemed a bit on the weird side. We’d shout to friends and invite them up and wave at a favourite teacher walking by. They would wave back, all but the most unflappable shaking their heads as their gaze returned to where they walked.

I don’t remember what kind of tree it was. To be honest, I never knew what kind of tree it was. But I was and am grateful for it. Later in the spring, the leaves hid us from passers-by. We didn’t use that clandestine place for any particular rule-breaking. There were better places to smoke and drink and fuck. Instead it was enough to be hidden in plain sight. We were a nerdy bunch. We talked about literature and art and theatre and the future and what scared us. About what excited us. About the girls and boys we liked. At least one of us napped there on one of the larger branches. Sometimes we just wondered why more people didn’t use their free time to climb up a tree and chill their shit out.

Sometimes I remember that at least one of those people I used to climb that tree with isn’t here anymore.

I haven’t really climbed a tree since high school. Perhaps the odd one when I was younger than now and the branches were low enough. It’s a strange thing to be wondering whether I could still do it. I feel quite strongly, with everything happening, that it might be a good thing, in my free time, to climb up a tree and chill my shit out.