Then one evening when I was looked up in my room, my father came in with something under a towel. I could tell it was a  painting because that's how he transports the important ones when he shows them in the park. He sat down, resting the painting on the floor in front of him. "I always liked that tree of yours," he said. "Even before you told me about it,"

    "Oh, Dad. it's okay. I'll get over it."

    "No, Julianna. No, you won't."

     I started crying."It was just a tree..."

    "I never want you to convince yourself of that. You and I both know it isn't true."

      "But Dad..."

       "Bear with me a minute, would you?" He took a deep breath. "I want the spirit of that tree to be with you  always. I want you to remember how you felt when you were up there." He hesitated a moment, then handed me the painting. "So I made this for you."

    I pulled off the towel. and there was my tree. My beautiful, majestic sycamore tree. Through the branches he'd painted the fire of sunrise, and it seemed to me I could feel the wind. And way up in the tree was a tiny girl looking off into the distance, her cheeks flushed with wind. With joy. With magic.

    "Don't cry, Julianna. I want it to help you, not hurt you." 

     I wiped the tears from my cheeks and gave a mighty sniff. "Thank you, Daddy," I choked out. "Thank you."

    I hung the painting across the room from my bed. It's the first thing I see every morning and the last thing I see every night. And now that I can look at it without crying. I see more than the tree and what being up in its branches meant to me. 

    I see the day that my view if things around me started changing.