Go Play Outside!
by Thomas Wells
“Go play outside!” said the boy’s mother. The boy didn’t really want to go, he was very involved in indoor boy activities—but he did. He ran out into the autumn world, losing himself in the whirlwind of dry leaves, snapping twigs, the softly caressing wind. He ran and he ran and he ran, and then he ran some more—until he came to a tree that he had never seen before. It was tall, taller than any tree he had ever seen, wider than ten trees tied together. It was all at once golden yellow, verdant green, and earthy brown, shifting and changing before his eyes. There were tiny little holes that were perfect size for boy-sized hands and feet.
And so, naturally, he began to climb. The boy climbed and climbed, and his hands and feet began to grow very sore—it was a very long climb, longer than he could have imagined. He almost stopped many times, and clambered back down, but he thought, “I have climbed so far, I might as well go to the top.” He climbed, and his limbs grew longer, his feet outgrew his shoes, his clothes became tight, and hair sprouted on his face.
Finally, the boy-who-was-not-a-boy-anymore (though that is still what we will call him) reached the top of the tree. But it was no longer a tree. It was a grassy plain, where there were many beautiful things. And so the boy explored them, and forgot all about the tree. He found a kingdom, full of people, who made him their prince, and he saved their kingdom from a dragon. He met wizards who taught him the mysticism and magic of the world. A princess who did not need saving saved him, and they found great love, greater than can bear description.
Great Darkness and Death found its way to the kingdom, and with it the people became sad and frightened, and the boy was sad and frightened as well. But through this the boy became wise, and he was no longer afraid of the dark, for it was part of him, and all of us.
Many years passed, and the boy was an old man, yet we shall still call him boy. He was still loved by his people, and his children valued him beyond compare. But he was old, and his wife had left him, and he was sad. He became sick, and needed to stay in bed. As he lie in bed, slowly breathing, he looked out the window—admiring the beauty of the sky, the cool breeze that swept in the window, bringing a faint reminder of adventurous youth. Slowly, his eyes began to drift closed.
He decided not to close them.
And the room changed. He was no longer in bed. He was in the top branches of a very large tree, and there were perfect boy-sized handholds and footholds leading down. He was very old, this boy, but he wanted to explore once again, and, his nightshirt flapping about his skinny legs, he began to climb down.
The climb down seemed to take no time at all; he seemed to remember that it was much harder coming up. At last, the boy placed his foot on the leafy copse of the forest. He looked around, and he looked at himself.
He looked at himself, and saw that he was a little boy.
Just a little boy.
And he ran home to eat supper.
