The tree in Grandma's backyard.

I fell down during my ascension and, sure enough, you laughed at my scraped knee. It was somebody else's turn to climb the tree.

There were so many of us.

Grandma sold the house and, one by one, each of our families left the state.

Lines of communication frayed and wore thin until the only time I heard your voice was in my dreams.

And then you were gone. And now you're gone indefinitely.

I'm mad at you for leaving, but not because of my own selfish reasons. You left behind three beautiful children who are going to start climbing trees soon.

There are so many of us.

I don't have enough arms to catch everyone who falls.

 

Fortunately mine is still alike and kicking, to blunt it is one of those "any day now" sorta things for her. The deceased (in the poem) is actually my cousin.