Branch

I was old enough for a two-wheeler, and to fetch mail from the mailbox, so surely I understood when my dad said, “Don’t swing on the low branch of that old peach tree.” First chance, I took hold of that branch and swung like Tarzan … a sharp crack … a broken branch. I sat by the broken branch and tried not to cry. My father came with a ball of twine and a black, tarry substance, lifted up the broken branch and went to work. I heard every word he did not say. The branch survived … and so did I.