dangling ovenbird Do you remember the apple tree? The one with the thick bough nine feet above the ground, at least? We were having a picnic and dad was into photography then and he thought he would have us sit on that branch, so high above the ground, and he would take a picture of two happy kids in an apple tree and in that way he would assure a memory of this idyllic day by the lake under the apple trees. And he stood on the picnic table and lifted our small bodies onto the branch. You were wearing a striped shirt. The picture proves this. Our legs dangled over the edge and there we were, way out there in the middle of the air with nothing to lean on and nothing to cling to and nothing to catch us if we fell. I could feel gravity pulling on my ankles. I could feel how easy it would be to fall. I was young, but not young enough to pretend I was invincible. I don’t think I was ever that young. And with my feet dangling from the branch I thought about how easily all my bones would break if I fell to the ground. And the camera went snap snap snap like fractured ribs and in each photograph we were alive but terrified. And in the family album there is the picture of us, looking down at our father with his camera, our faces frothing with fear, our hands sweaty on the tree’s uncaring bark. He said, “smile!” but we couldn’t. And when he lifted us down from the branch we almost kissed the ground, the grass slick with rotting apples, our skulls, mercifully, unbroken. 260328 what's it to you? who go blather from