Why I look at the tops of trees again

By Sophie Wood

I am almost 16 and the world is at eye level. When I cook with my dad, I keep a straightforward gaze, only needing to strain my neck to look down upon our work.

When I “cooked” with my dad, he was a 30 foot giant who knew everything and everyone. He could answer any question, and I would strain my amazed neck to see him. I looked up to him. 

I used to look up to everything. How wonderful a world could be with infinite space above you, with giants for parents and castles for play structures. I used to understand how small I was, how insignificant my few years were to the vastness of life and its possibilities. Looking up does that to you. Everyone being so big just means you have so much room to grow.

I now look straight. There is simply no need to strain my tired neck to the skies. My dad is now a reasonable few inches above. My old playground is no longer a castle, but a set of dangerous looking spinners and a plastic slide about my height. I am accurate, I am precise and I have lost my wonder.

If anything, I look down. I look down to my school work and I look down to children who look back up at me. I understand how little they know, how simple and easy their lives must be. I am a giant, a tyrant of truth and an uninspired harsh routine. 

A couple of weeks ago I heard a bird, and I looked up. My neck strained to a position it hasn't been in a decade. I have to admit I felt something when I saw the pointy top of a large tree. A gentle giant to my small life, it sees and knows so much more than I can ever imagine. Delicately, the tree has gifted homes to squirrels and birds, while going through the constant change and stress of the seasons. Still it stands proud and tall, as I gaze up with amazement.

Although I have a firm set of roots, and a finished trunk, I will always have room to grow. Please, try to look at the tops of trees again.