One weekend when I was 8 and my brother Lark was 10, our father got a heap of
wood and started building us a treehouse. We had a big old tree in our yard with
low branches spreading thick, shooting fans of broad dark green leaves which
were cool in summer and fell in winter. I never found out what sort of tree it
was.
He spent that weekend making a strong floor and shoring up the platform
with thick crossed beams, so we could climb up easily on any side. He smelt of
fresh sap and sawdust as we bounced around him trying to help. I remember
picking sawdust out of his black curly hair as he picked me up. He laughed, and
wiped mud off my face. Next weekend, he was gone.
The half-finished treehouse sat in our yard for over a year, while we set
about trying to fix ourselves. Then one day by silent agreement my brother
and me set about fixing the treehouse. Our mother said nothing but she seemed to
approve, and we found useful pieces of wood in the yard when we needed
them. My arms ached from sawing. lark had black nails from slipped hammer blows.
The fat kid from down the street, who was helping us, fell off and bruised his
ass, and boy did he yell. But we made that treehouse, and we made it ours.
Though we were sad that he never got to see it, sometimes.