I’m sleeping, I think; this has the vivid feeling of a dream.
Before my house was rebuilt, a huge mango tree stood in the front yard.
Somehow sitting on those long gone steps leading up to the former lānai and front door,
I hear a voice call out my name, a small, high one, barely audible.
Searching out the sound’s source, I scan the yard then see him up in the tree,
maybe six, dressed in black shorts and T-shirt, his feet bare and brown.
He waves, and I wave back, try to say hello, but I’m unable to do so.
A peculiar smile sheets across his face, and lowering my head to cough into my hand,
trying to clear my throat to speak, I look back up.
He’s gone; I blink; the tree has vanished, too. Waking, I see I was dreaming,
and I lie in bed struggling to recall where I’ve seen that strange smile before.
Suddenly it hits me, that my bed, positioned here, sits where the mango tree stood; I shudder.
Taking down that tree, I see, eternally estranges me from children I’ll never know.