I feel stupid, and contagious.

The Treehouse.

A couple months back, my mom came in after a hard day’s work out back, exclaiming her exhaustion and thirst. I asked what the Hell she’d been doing out there, and she told me, as though she’d mentioned it ten times already, that she’d been tearing down the treehouse. I immediately asked her WHY, and she launched into an explanation in one of those ‘Oh for Christ’s sake’ tones, about how dangerous it was. It was falling apart. It could fall on someone. I knew she was right. It did need to come down, especially with it approaching summer and a certain little three-year-old that loves an adventure or any opportunity to explore. But I was sad. That was our tree house, that we helped build and paint. Have you ever had one of those moments in which you realize that your childhood has passed you by? This was one of those moments. For years I loved that treehouse. It had an upstairs and a downstairs - fancy, huh - and not a whole lot else. But I loved it. I remember taking so many of my childhood friends up there. The laughter. The gossip. The tears. The sugar-binges. I wasn’t mad that she’d taken it down, but I was sad that she hadn’t told me beforehand. Because I don’t know what I would have done. Probably just gone outside, stared at it for a half minute or so and then went back indoors. But I felt like I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to it, like with so many things in childhood.