Roots

The tree seemed to grow taller and taller every time I glanced at it outside. Draped over the sofa, I peeked one eye out of the window to take another look; as if I feared the tree would sprout roots and run away. Instead of running, the tree grew. I jumped off the couch and pressed my face against the cool glass window. While the tree continued its growth spurt, the house on top remained the same. I looked at it, longingly.

My father had built it for me on my 10th birthday. I had begged and begged for a treehouse and my father, being the people pleaser that he was, delivered. He worked on it nonstop during the summer and had finally completed it just before school started. After it was finished, I spent all my free time in the treehouse, playing with my friends, drawing, and even hanging out with my mom and dad. We would have dinners up in the tree and laugh together about unbearable customers my mother would have at the restaurant.

I smiled at the memories that flooded my brain. I grabbed a water bottle and ran outside in my flip flops. The hot sun beamed down on my already tan skin. I felt little droplets of sweat already form on my forehead and down my back. I eyed the treehouse carefully as I inched closer and closer. I hadn't realized how fast I was walking until I was in front of the ladders that led up to the treehouse. I hesitated before climbing up. One step at a time. When I got to the top, I looked inside. Nature had dirtied the once magnificent house. Leaves were sprawled all around the wooden floor and on the muddy and wet carpet. Ants and other small insects hurried out, surprised by the sudden human appearance. I climbed all the way in and headed towards the two windows, pushing back the cloth curtains. The treehouse oversaw my house and our driveway. A slight breeze made its way inside, blowing my hair in my eyes. The feeling of being back inside the treehouse confused me. I felt as if I had settled the need to come back, but another part of me ached for my mother. Luckily, she was not home to witness my betrayal.

My father had cheated on my mother when I entered 8th grade. The divorce was messy and since then, the treehouse collected dust. Mom forbade me from going up in the tree and swore she would tear it down herself. But it's been 2 years and she has yet to grab her tools. In those two years, my father had gotten remarried to the woman he cheated with. When she first found out he cheated, Mom had thrown all his things out in the lawn and kicked him out, but the treehouse stayed. I think it reminded her of what he did and to not take him back. For me, it became a memory of the father who would move heaven and earth for his only child. While Mom held onto her anger, I clung to what could have been. I wanted to hate my father. For hurting Mom. For ruining our lives. For not fighting for us. But all those reasons never seemed enough to hate him and I always found myself looking out at the treehouse.

I leaned my chin against the window ledge and looked up at the sky, searching for clouds. The sky was a clear blue. I closed my eyes and soaked in the smell of the treehouse. It smelled of rainwater, old oak, and the sun. I heard the laughter of my parents. The loud chatter of my dad boasting about his singing ability, followed by his poor attempt to sing Frank Sinatra. I missed him.

"What are you doing up there?!" My eyes flung open and I saw my mother looking up at me, her hands on her hips. "What did I tell you about going up there?! I gestured for her to join me. Mom shook her head and frowned. "No. Absolutely not. Get down!" She hollered. I almost listened.

"Mom, how come you never tore it down?" I called back. She sighed, pressing her hand to her temples before heading towards the ladder. My eyes widened as I heard her climb up the steps. Her head poked out of the opening and we locked eyes. She hoisted herself up and into the treehouse, sitting close to me.

"How come you never took it down?" I repeated quietly. Mom looked at me with kind eyes and then took a deep breath.

"I...I don't know," she said after awhile. "Maybe I'm still not over what your father did. Maybe it's not my decision to destroy it, but yours."

"I don't hate him, Mom," I whispered. "I thought I could. I thought I did. But all the reasons he left just didn't seem enough to hate him...I'm sorry." Mom pulled me into a hug.

"Oh, honey, don't be sorry. You don't have to hate your father. He was a good father to you. He loves you and cares about you. What we were is in the past," Mom said softly. "I wish we could have worked, but we don't always get what we want..." Mom's long, thin fingers brushed through my hair as she rested her chin on my head. We sat in silence for quite some time. The sun was now leveled at the top of the treehouse window. It still didn't seem fair to my mother. Everyone could move on except her. She would always be reminded of what my father did. And it will break her heart again and again.

"Let's destroy it," I said, releasing myself from Mom's arms. She looked at me, slightly surprised.

"Are you sure?" She asked, her eyes worried. "You loved this house." I nodded.

"I don't need it anymore. I got to spend a last afternoon in it, so I'm okay," I replied, placing a hand on the wall gently. Mom gave a half smile, still unsure.

"It's okay if we keep it, I-I don't mind," Mom tried.

"Mom, I don't want it anymore. I'm sure," I assured her. Mom nodded slowly. "But, can we stay here just a little longer, for the last time?"

"Of course," she whispered. I laid down and put my head in my mother's lap, staring out the window and at the sky. I watched as an airplane flew slowly past, a line of white smoke following it. I closed my eyes and smiled to myself. I felt the tree grow stronger beneath us, as it carried the weight of memories from what seemed like years ago. The tree was finally coming down. Which may represent the memories disappearing too, but that's not how I see it. It's a chance for another start. The roots will always be there, but the tree will be different. While not in the same spot, that's the point of a fresh start.