As I was walking down the sidewalk one night,
I saw a reddish-brown-haired little girl -- maybe
seven or eight, and with plenty of freckles -- standing
in my way, totally still, with her eyes staring straight
ahead and through me. I side-stepped, planning
to walk around her, but I got too curious, and stopped.
“Are you lost?” I asked. She shook her head. “Are
you waiting for your mother?” Shook her head
again. “Well, why are you just standing there?”
She sighed that sigh we sigh when forced to talk
to an idiot. “I’m a tree,” she said, showing one big
front tooth and one little, and still staring firmly ahead.
“No,” I told her, “You’re a little girl, and you’re acting
weird.” Her eyes got even smaller and meaner.
“Whatever,” she said. “I’m tired of acting like a little girl
just because that’s what people think I am. I’m
what I really am now, and that’s a freakin’ tree, okay?”
I nodded slowly, and then said, “Shouldn’t you hold
your arms out, like this?” She said, “I had them out,
but they got tired. Maybe I’ll put them out again
in the spring.” Somehow drawn to her game now,
I asked, “Do you want me to act like a tree, too?”
She looked at me funny and said, “You’re not a tree.
I see what you really are -- we all can.” As she said that,
she glanced to the side. I followed her eyes and looked
across the street. At first, I could see nothing but blinding
yellow glare, and then, through leaking eyes, I was slowly
able to make out the ever-rising rows of seats filled
with people munching on popcorn, fiddling with programs
and staring at us. My stomach twisted into a wild, writhing
terror, and I flew screaming away from that little girl
and her play; from those people who could see me truly.

***

Adam Ferrari lives with his dog in a little shack on the edge of the Oklahoma plains. He is studying creative writing at the University of Central Oklahoma. His poems have appeared in New Plains Review and Aquapolis.