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ycamore tree。
I flipped around on the couch and just sat。
A sycamore tree。
Bryce finished planting the tree; watered it; cleaned everything up; and then went home。 And
I just sat there; not knowing what to do。
I've been sitting here for hours now; just staring out the window at the tree。 It may be little
now; but it'll grow; day by day。 And a hundred years from
now it'll reach clear over the rooftops。 It'll be miles in the air! Already I can tell—it's going to
be an amazing; magnificent tree。
And I can't help wondering; a hundred years from now will a kid climb it the way I climbed the
one up on Collier Street? Will she see the things I
did? Will she feel the way I did?
Will it change her life the way it changed mine?
I also can't stop wondering about Bryce。 What has he been trying to tell me? What's he
thinking about?
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I know he's home because he looks out his window from time to time。 A little while ago he put
his hand up and waved。 And I couldn't help it—I gave a little wave back。
So maybe I should go over there and thank him for the tree。 Maybe we could sit on the porch
and talk。 It just occurred to me that in all the years we've known each other; we've never
done that。
Never really talked。
Maybe my mother's right。 Maybe there is more to Bryce Loski than I know。
Maybe it's time to meet him in the pro
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