That summer, you took me on a walk through the forest and into the trees, right up into the trees; we were next to the birds and closer to the sky. I'd never seen so much green before, it was so different to the type of place I grew up in. We left the city behind, cars and smoke and concrete and crowds felt so far away up there.
And we felt so tall. And we thought that nothing could go wrong. We were wrong.
We were too young, you climbed too high, you realised too late, and I saw you fall, fall to earth so quickly, before I'd even taken a breath. I was holding my breath. You had yours knocked out of you, I saw you lying there surrounded by dirt and I got my mobile phone out and my fingers dialled 999 before I was even aware I had thought of doing it. The green became flashing red and blue and they took you away, they called our parents and took me away in their dizzy vehicles. Everything seemed brown and grey and red and blurry; nothing matched or made sense and nothing was beautiful anymore.
I visited you as soon as they would let me and you looked awful, you'd broken both of your arms and had cuts and bruises everywhere. I guessed you hit the ground with your arms, like you were reaching out to the earth, like we were reaching out to the sky only seconds before you fell, but I knew you were trying to push it away. I returned to my home in the grey city with its potted plants on the windowsill and visited you every day until you got out of the hospital.
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