Sitting on the branch, well-hidden in the big fig tree in the garden, I looked down upon my life from above. I watched my mother go in and out of the house, busy doing things that, to me as a child, seemed about as essential as the Big Dipper in the sky. I watched my father meticulously checking that everything was in its place and grumbling about a piece of candy wrapper left on the ground.

I observed that they could live without me, that their gestures were well established, their moods always the same. I observed their pettiness, their fading love. I thought that if I stayed hidden long enough in my tree - perhaps until nightfall but no longer since each time I forgot to bring food - I thought that they would finally start to worry, that they would search and not find me and that in their fear of losing me they would discover their love for me. And at the same time their love for each other.

I waited for hours, telling myself beautiful stories in which the Knight always pretended to be hurt so that I would kiss him. I did all I could to grow up faster so I could leave with him, faraway to a castle perched on an eerie hill bathed in mist. They were beautiful love stories like those which my mother read to me in the evening and I concentrated very hard so I could keep on thinking about them and believing them, even when the story was over. Then I brought tears to my eyes, and then, closing my eyes almost all the way, I saw points of color through my tears: life danced within them like in an exquisite fairy tale.

I often drifted away like this on my branch, and each time - with a voice full of authority and love - my mother asked me to come down and do my homework or pick up my room. I did this promptly because I was afraid of upsetting her.

One day my father cut off the branch. Katia Bourdarel