When I was younger, I was obsessed with climbing the trees in my backyard. We had many different kinds. There was the apple – which I had planted myself –the oak, and a few willow trees. On one of the sunniest days of summer, a few weeks before I would begin the fourth grade, I squinted my way through our backyard. I was running after our pet rabbit, which I had accidentally let loose. He was much too fast for me, however, and I breathlessly gave up the chasing and hoped he would tire himself out. I looked around the yard and smiled at one of the trees closest to the house. It was our favorite, giving shade to use and adventure to seek in the heat. I scrambled to the top in what felt like a single second, and clenched my hands onto the tips of the limbs around me to balance myself. In one look, I realized that I was higher than the roof of my house and in another glance, I was able to see past the fence that my mother told me never to climb. There was an empty field behind my house, which was cleared with grass and absent of trees, itchy shrubs or marbled flowers. While I was gazing, I saw the white rabbit in the corner of the fence, digging his way out, and as I leaned forward, the branch below me snapped in half, and I began to fall. The opposite of slow-motion, time sped up and my body was attacked by all the branches I had just seconds earlier surpassed. They swiped at me in all directions, slapping my face, chest and legs without any sense of mercy. Each hit burned my skin and my back landed onto the solid and round white rocks surrounding the tree. The fall knocked the air out of me, a balloon deflated and my eyes were wide knowing I was alone except for the rabbit digging his way to freedom. In those seconds when a child swears that death is creeping, foolishness sets in and apologies are whispered. I’m sorry for pushing the girl with glasses into the mud, I thought it would make everyone laugh. I’m sorry for misspelling the word “it,” I can do better. I’m sorry for climbing up instead of looking out.