When We Were Young

I’ve found throughout the years that there is one thing we don’t seem to get enough credit for. We are adaptable to change. Change took me away from here, the place I once called home on the corner of fifth street. Change has now brought me back, but I won’t be staying. I hesitate for a moment as I walk the well-worn path of the backyard of my childhood and find a consolation in its reacquaintance, even though now I’m far from home. I wander the path in sentimentality for what was, hesitation dwindling and the thought that maybe this was a mistake. I walk the path until it ends and where the roots of an old friend still stand. I’ve come this far. Standing here again underneath the embrace of our oak tree, I’m looking up and see that so much depends on a blue sky cut open by the branches of a tree and the little house held by this tree. This is where the light comes through and allows the shadows to dance with the wind to the song of the birds. We never thought that the wind would blow cold.

My gaze comes back to the ground and I feel alone, yet at the same time, completely surrounded. Surrounded by memories of people and ideas that no longer exist here in this moment. Memories of the best and worst days I have ever known. I take a breath and start to climb the ladder that is still missing that one rung. I’m uncertain. I’ve come so far. Reaching our house among the treetop, I feel sentimental, heartbroken, comforted. A complicated mess of emotions I anticipated but wasn’t prepared for. It’s become a time capsule of a childhood and it’s somewhat odd to see everything the way we left it, aged with time and abandonment. Once upon a time, this was our realm, our Middle Earth, our Narnia. I’ve realised though that ‘once upon a time’ are the words of a childhood. How those moments flew and we grew up and forgotten promises got lost along the way.

The afternoons we spent up here were some of the best I have come to know. Remember how we saw the colours flickering from this window and we felt the summer in the wind? Remember how the colours of autumn reminded us of the hope in change? Autumn was always my favourite season spent up here with you. There was something about the way the golden sunshine mixed with the orange, yellow, and fading green. There was something about being wrapped up in scarves, warming up with hot chocolate and your gran’s choc chip biscuits. But now, I understand why summer was your favourite. I notice for the first time how the summer sunshine mixed with the oak leaves is the most beautiful shade of green I know, other than the shade of your eyes. Remember how we found wonder in the little things? Remember how the older we got this became our together place of solitude? I wander over to the corner you made for me. The pillows are dusty and the notebooks are filled with faded ink. Our books are all still stacked here with pencil lines underlining things we once found euphoric, pages folded at the corners, and debated over plots. Remember the time you saw me reading here and when I looked up I asked you what was on your mind? That was the first time you told me I was beautiful and the first time I felt the butterflies. And I know now that so much depends on glanced over and mumbled poetry.

The afternoons spent here were all we ever knew. They are imagined worlds built on the branches of an old oak tree. They are hours spent with me reading books while you built the bird house we hung from that branch you once climbed up. They are conversations and secrets well-kept. They are the bits and pieces of things collected over time. They are the stories we told. I notice how beautifully the dust lingers in the air as its caught by the sun rays. Odd how beautiful the result of years left untouched is. Looking around, I see the years and moments and memories float around in the particles, like a view master reel has been set up for only me to shuffle through. We never thought the leaves would fall.

I wander to the centre of our treehouse and find the old splintered floor. I hug my knees to my chest as I feel the weight of the years and moments and things and people all at once. I close my eyes and relive that time you found me here crying. You sat down next to me and took me into your arms and I noticed for the first time how strong and safe you felt. You didn’t speak, you didn’t ask, you just held me until the tears stopped. What had I hoped I would gain from this afternoon? To disconnect from my nostalgia? As I sit cross-legged now, I notice how a branch has grown in through the window and the shadow it casts on the floor. I trace a part of its outline with my finger. Nostalgia is a quiet want to just sit here in the old of a different time. It’s almost the side effect of a good life. I feel the sun on my face and breathe in deep the stillness of summer and bask in the memories.

When the leaves fell, I closed the door to hide my heart. I know that nothing is like it used to be and all this writes out the story of things forgotten by everyone but us. To feel the flood of a childhood and how it grew and to look at its burden all at once has made me feel new in a sense I have never known before. I’ve felt the cold but this afternoon I remember how the leaves come out again as winter ends and long nights fade. The summer sunshine still lingers in the branches of the tree and the sky like it doesn’t want to let go. I feel an intimacy in its sentimentality. I don’t want to let go but I know it’s time to leave. I feel the splintered floor one last time as I push myself up and walk towards the window. I touch the leaves of our old friend and look out at the view that hasn’t changed in all this time. I whisper out to the fading light, “I know that as time turned we drifted away, but I’ll wait for you and our one day.”