When I was looking through one of my writer's notebooks, I found one of my original lists I made when I was first introduced to the idea of writing about my life as a book with seven stories or seven chapters. I decided to pick one of my old titles to write a snapshot.
It had a perfect sitting branch; thick and low and strong enough for me and a friend. From that branch, I could see over the hedge that surrounded our backyard and into the alley behind. In the spring, it was a dome of pink. Very beautiful but full of bees. I liked the tree better in the summer. As I balanced on the sitting branch, feet dangling, I felt like I was under a big green umbrella. I often sang show tunes while I stood on the sitting branch. If someone walked down the alley, they could hear my rendition of Wouldn't It Be Loverly but they couldn't see me. At least that's what I thought.