Sky Scraper

There are a lot of ways to note the passage of time. One of the easiest ways for my family is to look out the front window at the magnolia tree that fills one corner of our yard. Fifteen years ago it was an empty spot, waiting for the sun to hit it. When we planted it, the tree was still feet below peeking over the fence. We needn't fear that it would attempt to escape. Now, after a decade and a half, that fence is obscured by a towering plant of magnificent foliage. It holds its own easily with the weedy white plum in the opposite corner that was there years before. It is the plant that we are most proud of. Unless you count our son.
When our baby boy grew too big for his crib, we considered getting him a "big boy bed." We even shopped for one of those plastic race car frames, but lost interest abruptly when we acquired a queen size mattress and box spring. We liked the idea that the three of us could all lay down at bedtime for a story, and there would still be room enough for the stuffed menagerie and assorted Lego constructions that found their way there before lights out. And for the longest time, he would ball himself up in one corner, surrounded by blankets and pillows with all of that comfy real estate with room to expand.
That's just what he did. When he was in elementary school we lifted that bed up high above the floor of his room, leaving a corral below for Bionicle storage and a place to build. Up above, he was growing. When I reached over the end of the bed to give it a shake the other morning, I felt a foot: my son's. He was stretching, but he was stretching to the length of the bed. I recalled the ladder that he used to climb into bed for so many years. That's out in the garage now. He uses a stool to hike himself up and let himself down, but he is no longer the little sprout that we planted there once upon a time. He's still a few feet behind the magnolia, but he'll get there.