Yggdrasil. The world tree. That was what I called the old oak. I was a strange child. When I climbed, I was Ratatoskr, the messenger.
To get up I had to make a running jump, stepping on a round knobble of bark, then grabbing the first branch with both hands. I would clamber for a while, then rest, my back curving to match the shape of an ancient bough.
Sixty years have passed, and I’m home again. I no longer have to jump, which is some relief. I sit in my old spot and watch the clouds roll in. Ragnarok approaches.