The Green

There was a patch of empty green land in between university buildings in the small town where I grew up, very creatively dubbed “the Green” by the local students. It was a beautiful place, though somewhat boring for a little girl. In lieu of a real playground, I would climb on the trees that dotted the edges of this grassy patch of land. There was one tree in particular, a tree so pretty it almost didn’t seem real. The trunk was tan and smooth, not like the rough ones that scratch and bite at little kids’ legs and bellies. It was perfectly climbable, too--even my stubby little legs could swing up on the branches. From high up on the tree I could see everything around me, from the quaint red-brick buildings to the students down below walking to class. I basked in the warm summer sun while I picked green leafs off of the branches. Every hour on the hour I could hear the artificial bells ringing from a nearby building.

When I was in high school, and much too sophisticated for climbing trees, the Green became a place for me and my friends to hang out around college students and pretend to belong. One January day a bitterly cold rain began to fall on our heads and we ran for cover under the tree, whose bare branches offered little defense. My friends and I huddled together for warmth, our cool-kid clothes were too thin to do their job. I ended up shoved against a boy named Tom, a cute but awkward young man who I’d had a crush on for a while. His dark shirt and blue jeans were plastered to his skinny body when he finally worked up the courage to ask me out. He became my first boyfriend in that moment, under that perfect tree on the Green. To this day, any time I see this tree I think of his incredibly smooth pick up line, “I’m so glad that you exist.”