At the top of that tree, he could forget that, since Wednesday, half of the wardrobe in the front bedroom was empty, the car had gone, and the table felt lopsided come dinner-time.
At the top of that tree, with its view of the park and London spread out beneath him like a child’s model, he could start to imagine not feeling snapped in two.
At the top of that tree, holding his girlfriend’s hand and talking about school, TV, tomorrow, he could let himself imagine that the words ‘final’ and ‘never’ and ‘over’ might not always taste of salt and ash.
At the top of that tree, with its wide branches and easy footholds, he could look up at the sky through a dancing, shifting pattern of leaves, and let himself dream.
Inspired by Emma Hewett’s answer to the question: when was the last time you climbed a tree?, May 21st, 9.05am