Billie’s house was as small as a shack to begin with, but as the wind whipped east from Lake Erie and south from Ontario, we crouched in its hold so that, by late February, we began to feel cramped. Even as we gathered around the wood-burning stove, rubbing palms together, we longed for space. We made up games and read books, but as the winter wore on and we felt we could bear it no more, we pulled on warm clothes and wandered outside in search of signs of thaw.
The tree out front, we discovered, leaked sugar water. We tapped into it with the sharp end of a nail, used a hammer to break into its flesh, then pressed our mouths to the rough bark and waited for the tree to bleed. It was slow in coming, but the taste was clean and cool and sweet. A few cars passed and drivers stared at the sight of children licking on trees. We ignored them. The sap fell onto our tongues and we had nowhere else to be, so we waited—mouths opened, latched onto the giant old maple.