Hendricks 1

Macaleigh Hendricks

Ms.Andaluz

English 100

8 October 2015

My Second Home

IbetIllgetuptherebeforeyouwill! says Savannah excitedly, a grin creeping across her lips

and her chocolate-brown eyes squinting fiercely.

No way! I quickly reply, instantly knowing how this will end.

Race ya! Savannah shouts, bolting toward the woods without a second thought.

Im so gonna beat you! I yell as loud as I can, running as fast as my tiny legs will carry

me.

We weave in between trees decorated in red and orange leaves as the fresh fall air

conforms around us. Flying wood chips, flattened purple tulips, and muddy footsteps leave a

mischievous trail to the beloved treehouse that lay triumphantly in the distance. My breath heavy

and legs exhausted, I finally reach the base of the small log treehouse. My hands eagerly grasp

the cold wooden ladder and I giggle all the way up. The sound ricochets throughout the dense

forest of dark green pine trees, finding its way back to my ears several seconds later. The

massive door swings open with a creek, and I am quickly enveloped in the warm hug that is the

treehouse. The relaxing air inside contrasts with the chilly autumnal air outside. Soft beige

blankets and corny decorations cover the interior and give the treehouse a homey feeling. The
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house is made of hand cut wood that is bound together in an inviting way; it is stained brown

with light scratches and dents, which only adds to the character. I comb my fingers along the

rough textured wood, my fingernails getting caught in the spiky grooves.

In its early days the treehouse smelled of freshly cut wood and nature. As time has

progressed it has adopted the smell of our favorite foods--crackers, cream cheese, and cornbread.

In the dead center of the treehouse, a dartboard hangs on an otherwise empty wall with a

picture of Mackenzie, the vicious bully, firmly planted in its edges. Tattered old journals filled

cover-to-cover with random doodles and, Who do you like? 5th grade entries are stacked on

shelves in the dimly lit corner. Bright pink fluorescent flamingo lights line the low-hanging

ceiling, advertising the innocent aspect of our youth. The small floor is drowned in a sea of

brightly colored school worksheets and textbooks. The dark-blue carpet threatens to peel up at

the corners and expose the untouched wood underneath at any second.

Extravagant patterns of light spill through the windows that lack glass; they are now just

jagged rectangular holes in the walls with shutters to disguise them. I open the windows, which

lets in a refreshing wave of cool fresh air that gently brushes back my brunette hair.

Beyond the windows there is a small front porch. It is so small that even my minuscule

10-year-old body cannot stand on it. I have to perch myself between the almost-falling-apart

railing and the nearby tree for balance. It perfectly serves its purpose of seeing below, however.

Savannahs ant-sized unkempt head makes its way across the blanket of leaves covering the

ground and approaches the base of the treehouse.

Finally, Savannah comes climbing up the ladder, frizzy hair and all. Her cheeks are

splashed with pink and her breath is heavy.

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What took ya so long? Hows my dust taste? I say jokingly.

Shut up. she unsuccessfully tries to say without emotion, a small smile fighting for

dominance of her lips.

Its your turn. I say, handing her a pencil and the journal that we share. She eagerly tugs

at the bright red covered-in-tape notebook and opens it to a fresh page. We sit and eat saltine

crackers with cream cheese, a staple of our childhood which is oddly a delicious combination. I

watch her furiously scribble away at the pages, her eyebrows slowly un-knitting themselves and

her face returning to its normal calm expression. The journal is a way for us to escape in our own

thoughts, as is the treehouse.

Savory scents of smores and fall leaves waft into the treehouse from a campfire outside,

allowing me to sit and marvel at the utter perfection of the moment. Campfire songs etch their

names in the silence as they echo throughout the emptiness. The sun and earth delicately whisper

to each other in clouds of orange and pink as the sun falls over the glowing tree-lined horizon.

We turn off our pink flamingo party lights and watch the earth move for a while, for the

darkness is too lovely to ignore. The stars glow in such a fascinating way that we cannot seem to

spend enough time gazing at. Our eyes are glued to our surroundings like the way newlyweds

eyes are glued to each other at the altar--scared of what is to come, but excited to find out. Our

souls are intricately sewn together with the treehouse's to create an unbreakable bond. The world

is peaceful and wholesome through the comforting filter of our precious treehouse.

Little did we know that one day we would be separated. The treehouse would be stretched

across four thousand miles. However, with the right kind of friendship, the wood does not crack

and break. It stands strong even 11 years later, its roots firmly planted in the earth as it
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challenges, What else ya got? The treehouse is a place where we can rekindle our friendship

even after years of deafening silence; the time is erased like pencil markings as if we were never

apart. It is our second home.