The fan rotated at a slow speed overhead in the carpeted living room. He laid on the couch beside a window unit blowing cold air. The air-conditioner was on eco. He did not believe in wasting energy, although he drove a truck that got nineteen miles to the gallon; he believed everyone had a secret pleasure.

He looked outside his front window at the green trees bending a bit, stretching left to right, nature’s calisthenics, and remembered the tree house his father  built when he was a child.

His father did not build a ladder on the tree for him to step on with ease. Instead, the old man made the boy climb the hard, thick bark to the house; to this day, he blamed dad for his permanent scarred knees and everlasting bruised ankles.

He watched the wind blow the trees. Thought of his dad. Nothing is ever easy.

Walking outside, the middle-aged man wondered if he could still climb trees. The tall oak reminded him of the challenge of his childhood. Now, at fifty-five, he was not sure he could complete the task.

Some jobs men look and walk away, he thought. Others try and fail. Very few succeed. 

He went back to the couch and cried.