When I was ten years old, I clambered a three and a half foot electrical box to ascend a tree that had been shading the west side of my duplex home, until, of course, the government decided to replace it with a street light. I did not think it was as dark as they thought it was. I thought the moon illuminated the marble tar enough for headlights to embellish.
Anyway, I had straddled a sturdy branch that could have been nested by some hundred birds in the past. It was a two fingered arm that rooted right on the side of the trunk itself. Like a hammock. It was a good eight to nine feet from the ground.
The sereneness of the high, afternoon sun, and crisp, warm breeze, the only kind that would blow in my city, almost persuaded me into a light sleep. So I did.
After awhile, my balance shifted and I ate those eight feet and landed flat on my back. My chest heaved in and out, exhaling when it hurt to inhale, and inhaling when it hurt to exhale. A blackness coated my vision and my breathing skipped in between my broken heart beats.
That is how I feel now. The sight of that left me in a heap of extraordinary pain, to the point where I forget how to breathe.
The massive stain on your shirt must have been the only distraction that forced the life back into me.