Treehouse Soul

I take a deep breath of summer-fresh air, the kind where you have to close your eyes and stretch your arms toward the sky. I look back at the house I just left, the home of my childhood. Three figures sit reverently on the porch. One is my wife, two are my children. They know what I need to do. My wife waves, as if she is pushing the air to blow me away, into the grove of trees. I wrench my eyes away from them and step into the shade of the ash trees. 

I step slowly and lightly, like I am treading on holy ground. The leaves flutter and twinkle in the afternoon light. These trees are young. I must go deeper. 

When I come to the farthest edge of the grove, I find the oldest ash tree. I gaze up at its familiar branches. It has aged well, better than I anyway. Its appendages swayed gently in the breeze. It was like an old friend; it stood unwavering, even after all these years, waiting with open arms for my return. 

I climb the wooden ladder into the treehouse and let all the memories rush back to me.  The wooden floor creaks as I step, but I know it won’t give way. I gaze out the tiny window. The sun hangs low over the valley beyond. In the other direction, my family waits. Surely they can wait a moment longer.

I look around the small room. There was a makeshift table and two chairs, and a wooden box sat on the window sill containing a boy’s greatest treasures: a shiny rock, a wooden knife, a plastic maze puzzle, and a leaf plastered between two pieces of clear tape. There was a rope hanging from the ceiling attached to a skylight hatch.

My father had built the treehouse when I was eight. He said that every boy should have a treehouse as his guardian. I took that to mean that it was like a hideout from life. Later I learned that it is impossible to hide from life.

I would come here every day after school. Even in the summer I would spend the whole day in the treehouse. And every day when he got home from work, my father would climb up to meet me, still in his work clothes, carrying his briefcase. We would have magnificent adventures, traveling strange lands and battling odious beasts until we were called in for dinner. Some nights, we would open the skylight and lie under the stars.

It was on one of these nights that he taught me one of the greatest lessons of my life. Pointing to the sky, he said, “Just look up once in a while, son. When you do, you’ll realize that the universe is a lot wider than you remember.”

One afternoon, when I was thirteen, I waited for him in the treehouse, but he didn’t come. It grew dark and he still didn’t come. That happened once in a while, so I climbed down and went home. 

I didn’t realize that was the last time I would climb down. I would never lay under the starry skylight again. 

I would never spend another afternoon with my father again.

After twenty-five years of mourning and forgetting, I hope that the treehouse-- that my father will forgive me.

I drop to my knees and the treehouse shudders. Droplets splash onto the floor, and I collapse. I lay there on the floor for a long time with my wet face pressed against the aged wood. How long had it been? Ten minutes? Ten hours? Maybe if I lay here long enough, my father’s spirit will return to me, seeping up through the pores in the treehouse, soaking into my body, lifting me to my feet.

Suddenly, I hear two voices. Two melodies ringing through the ash tree grove. They grow louder, closer. They are soft and young, singing one word, a name, over and over. 

“Daaaddy!” they say.

Not my name, surely.

“Daaaddy!” sings one.

“Look!” sings another.

I can feel the tree quiver as two pairs of tiny feet stomp up the ladder. Then, two small faces appear, their cheeks red from running through the grove.

“Haha. Daddy, what are you doing?”

I summon all my strength and pull myself up. I open my arms, and the two children plop into my lap. They laugh and hand me fistfuls of leaves and flowers. They look around at their new playground. They love the window, the table and chairs, and the wooden box. Almost immediately, they begin playing with the treehouse. Their game is silly and intense and beautiful. 

When the sun finally disappears, we lay on the floor, one child on either side of me, their heads on my shoulders. I pull the rope on the ceiling and the skylight swings open. Starlight floods the treehouse. They are mesmerized at its brilliance. As they stare in awe at the night sky, I can see the reflections of the stars in their eyes.

I can almost feel my father watching. Maybe he is looking down from heaven, but I want to believe his spirit resides in the wooden boards we lay upon. I replay his voice in my head. “Just look up, son. When you do, you’ll realize that the universe is a lot wider than you remember.”

I look up. How could it have taken me so long to come back? How could it have taken me so long to look up instead of back?

I look down. To my children. To my wife, who has been waiting for me.

I carry my sleeping children out of the treehouse. She smiles and takes my hand to guide me back through the forest, but not just yet.

I look up once more at my father’s treehouse. It’s my treehouse now. I let my wife lead me home through the grove because I know that we will return. We will return.