Reprieve in a Reverie

I always loved our treehouse.

As a child, the day Dad announced that he had finished the treehouse coursed adrenaline through my all too small veins, not wilting despite the exasperated although somewhat exhilarated face as she attempted to hide the pride that she had for her husband shone through. He had been working on it for so long and to see it completed was a dream that came true.

Today, I feel no different. I still feel the comfort and privacy of the young birch tree that embraces my presence in its hollowed our trunk whilst I lay inside, contemplating all of the possibilities that could arise. The knowledge that I have my own haven to escape from the trials and tribulations of life as a teenager is appealing. Whenever the stress of school, friends or a vexing family inundates me, I find myself crossing the boundary to my treehouse. My brother always mocks me for it, but I think he is relieved to have some privacy and to lie in the top bunk for once. Even though it is only a mere ten metres from the unrelenting bickering between my mother and brother and the constant hum of news emanating from the tv whilst Dad relaxes, it feels a world away. Every breath is refreshing and allows for the movement and advancement forward.

Today is no exception. Usually, I try to build a level of durability and withstand the struggles of school exacerbated by the obsession of my friends over the new boys at school. They are always so quick to make assumptions and pick out the hottest, despite never even being glanced at by one of them. I wish I shared their naivety and could whisk myself into a superficial world of romantic ties and risqué behaviour, but the pull of my parents criticising me is always too strong. My parents are constantly on my back for my grades, and I can’t blame them given that I attained straight D’s in my semesterly report. I envy those that have been gifted with intelligence, as they always seem to have it worked. Everything is so easy for them: they can learn a new concept and cognise it in an instant. Furthermore, they learn how to apply it celeritiously. How unfair. But this semester, I have pledged to do my best, although the results are not showing themselves.

I sit without my phone -quite the feat for a teenage girl- sipping the aromatic and yet soothing rich energy of a well made hot chocolate. Its scent promises that everything will mull itself down as always and by the time I return, everything will be as normal. The warmth it expunged into my hands is welcome, and works well in congruence with the rustic vibe of the treehouse. The lacquer that Dad applied so long ago remains intact, despite the constant presence of rain. It is a simple sheen on the natural timber that reminds me of the beauty of the natural world. Although cliche, the idea centres me and allows for an ease of cognition that is imperative to my life.

Outside, the waft of the barbecue drifts into my haven, engulfing me in the familiar smell of burning charcoal and charring meat. What a time I chose to lock myself up. I forgot today was Dad’s barbecue brilliance, a title that I constantly make fun of him for. That said, the irresistible meat found hanging by a thread off a large bone has become a custom, alongside the signature homemade bacon lathered with sugar that has that oh so good crunch. Candied bacon was introduced to me in my last visit to pop and nan over in the states, and we have all been addicted ever since. The candy-fied meat is so scrumptious in all of its diabetic glory, uncaring as to the view of health professionals to it. Eventually, I will be lured out of my hole, but for now, the scent alone is enough to fulfil the craving of barbecue for now. It is weird that comics talk of cooking delectable food as a technique parents utilise to lure distraught or rebellious children from their rooms, when it seems like such an unrealistic scenario. Who in their right mind would give in to the scent? Me of course. When you actualise the situation, it is impossible. Driven by the primitive need for food in congruence with the familial bond that would be extirpated without the presence of a simple dinner.

A creak that echoes around the bark of the tree awakens me from my slumber, alerting my presence to the intruder that is approaching. Perhaps my brother has decided to claim his right to the treehouse, and I will have to take a final stand that will consist of some slapping and intervention from responsible adults. Or perhaps, it is merely a travelling possum, which is not uncommon for the season. The status quo on possums is so miskewed in that most people have actually never seen them before. Up close, they resemble clowns who balance precariously on anything; a fence, a wire, or in this case, the ladder that scenes to me. Even their cute little face is allowed in, which is strange given my phobia for most other creatures. My mum tells me that this hatred is sourced from the time I went to the zoo when I was a kid, and attacked by each and every one of the animals, but Iam probably just a naturally hating person.

I peep down to observe the intruder and am surprised to see Dad. Dad never disturbs me. I call to him not to burn the barbecue, and he laughs his nonchalant laugh and climbs in. He tells me stories from his mislead and action packed teenage life and gives me some stories about Aunt Mary and Uncle Frank. It really resonates with me. We sit together, leaning side to side, my head on his shoulder. Life is good.