The Giving Tree-House

One weekend in early fall, as the sun kissed the world goodbye, sizzling coals cast a bright red glow against the pale colored  sky. As I breathed in the crisp air and the sweet smell of corn being roasted on the barbecue, my thoughts turned inward against the backdrop of innocent laughter from my two younger brothers. I was up in my wooden treehouse. I missed being able to look out of its windows and take in the peace of the sky. I had become so lost in schoolwork and the start of the school year that I finally had a chance to get outside and reminisce.

As we grow older and experience the world, we long for more innocent days, no matter our age. Six years ago, my father and grandfather built the treehouse for my siblings and me, giving us the epitome of every child’s dream. In the one room that was no larger than a closet, we exchanged secrets, told stories, and played games. One day, to our parents’ dismay, we tied our waists using a string from the garage and began swinging from the ladder, putting on helmets as a sign of caution to show that we were at least somewhat responsible. We signed our names on the rear wall, sure that in twenty years, we could show them to our children as proof we had been there.

The treehouse was the subject of envy by all who knew about it. However, as inevitably happens with most things in life, we eventually lost interest, grown up, forgot.

We gradually stopped coming outside to play, visiting the old structure only on occasion when we didn’t have better things to do. We took down our decorations one-by-one because they ruined the look. Finally, we stopped coming altogether, giving our attention to the rest of the world: to social lives and video games and iPhones. We had come of age and earned our right to be like the rest of the self-absorbed world. The treehouse was left to age and decay through wind, rain, and snow.

Through the blooming of tree buds and the falling of leaves. After six years, the treehouse’s clean, smooth surface had become chapped and ridden with bugs, leaves, and residue.

The moss growing on it made it blend in with the trees in my backyard, and the treehouse that once rang with laughter faded into the background of my life. But the treehouse was still there.

Even as the world outside buckled under constant crises from the outbreak of Covid-19 to the brutal war in Ukraine to the protests in Iran to the recent hurricanes and natural disasters, the treehouse was still there: waiting earnestly to fill its hollow, sullen walls with laughter once again.

While my father was cooking his barbeque, I had a sudden urge to spruce up the old place. I climbed the worn steps and picked up a broom to begin sweeping the leaves away. Every pile of dirt cast away uncovered memories hidden underneath; an old rock with our names on it; a piece of paper that served as a plaque, proof of our owning this valuable piece of real estate.

The cleaning process was long, but not tedious. I was absorbed in my own work and joyfully sang as I finished sweeping and covering the wooden floor with mats. In the process, I stirred up a slumbering innocence, and I embraced it. My treehouse was shiny and new, and so was I.

Have an opinon on this student column? Send an email to jlasso@liherald.com.