The Tree House

We all have to grow up at some point. Luckily we have anchors tied to souls that will sink us back down to childhood every once in awhile.

I can still see the handprint on the aging wood. It’s faded now, long forgotten and old, left to endure the weather of Canadian seasons. We each had one-all five of us, and as we squeeze ourselves into every nook and cranny of the had been castle, we trace the outlines of purple and orange fingers with our adult eyes.

 

Our looks defy our age. These leathered, sun-kissed hands aren’t that of my seven year old mind. Red rimmed eyes and work worn skin don’t belong here; we had sworn that it was a kid’s only haven, a place where glue sticks and crayons could reside and lay out in full glory because Mom couldn’t get in to put them away. Now, here we are, breaking the sacred rule with our own wrinkled bodies.

 

“Darren, do you remember playing cops and robbers?” The tall man grins as the memories come flooding.

 

“How could I forget?”

 

That’s all it takes, four words and now we’re talking over each other, our minds replaying the summers of youth. “You tied him upside down!” Carol can barely get the words out; her laughter’s in the way.

 

“He had it coming,” Brady reassures us and sends a cheeky grin Matt’s way. “He was being a baby.”

 

“I was twelve.”

 

“That’s no excuse.”

 

The stories bounce around like that until we cry; tears of nostalgia streak down our beaming faces and slide along the outline of our smiles. “If I could be kid again, I’d never leave this place.” Matt voices the thought that runs through all our minds, his words a double edged sword that cuts the tight rope we’ve been standing on. Suddenly we can’t stand to be here.

 

One by one we file out of the little wooden castle, the acknowledgement turning our sweet memories sour. We all claim something different: we’ve got to get back to the kids, we have work in the morning, the wife will be wondering where we are. We don’t dare say that reminiscing has become painful, but we don’t need to, the affirmation lies in between the lines.

 

The ladder shakes under our weight as we climb down, and with each poorly nailed wedge I can feel the old seep back into my mind, like a virus taking over my system. As we leave the smell of hidden candy bars and painted hand prints , I can only think one thing: if age is a sin, I’m going to hell.

Reviews

[Paige H]

This is quite powerful and stirs the slight panic and pain that seeps in as we age. The piece is quite good, but I'd spend a little more time developing the story as it progresses from happiness to bitterness. Overall, this was a very evoking piece.