Yesterday I had to run over to the office – which is just three houses down from us now – and when I came back I saw Rosie on the second story balcony looking into our mango tree. I followed her gaze and saw a figure up in the mango tree almost on level with the third story floor. The figure was leaning precariously out on a limb towards our neighbor’s yard.

Charlotte. My heart skipped a beat. On our last call with my Mom she’d told the kids the classic story of how my older brother, Jeremy, put me in a sweetgum tree when I was three years old and then I proceeded to climb nearly to the top. I didn’t think it was an inspirational tale at the time but it immediately came to mind as I stood there. My mind raced as I started towards the tree, saying as calmly as I could, “Come back to the trunk, Charlotte.” I spent most of my youth in trees and I’m still a pretty good climber, the problem is that I weigh a lot more now. I was ready to climb up and get Charlotte, but worried that I’d actually make it worse. What to do. Reaching the trunk, I looked up and the figure was still leaning precariously out on the limb. What was she doing? Why wasn’t she listening? I repeated firmly, “Come back to the trunk, Charlotte. Then slowly come down.”

Then I heard laughter from the second floor balcony. I looked up to the two figures there and heard, “That’s not Charlotte.”

I looked again. It wasn’t Charlotte. It was our landlord gathering mangos. I felt relieved, embarrassed, and – as usual – impressed by our grandfatherly landlord’s physical prowess. I was also still terrified that he was going to fall so I went instead where I couldn’t see. (But then came out on the second floor balcony to take a quick photo.)