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Lucy Barton

Mrs. Burr

English 1010-Section 4

11 September 2018

There’s a House at the Top of a Tree

Powerful gusts of warm September wind swirled under the bridge, across murky water,

and through whispering reeds. The sun and shadows competed across the shimmering surface of

the water. Rainbows shined and dissipated as ripples aligned. Sitting on concrete while cars sped

over the top of me, my All-Star black Converse dangled inches from the water. Laughter rang

across the water, up off the bridge and back into my ears. In the heart of a perfect suburban

neighborhood, the artificial bottom of this artificial lake was covered with small, round

pebbles—pebbles that softly ​plop​ into the water—that more than likely were trucked in from

another state. Tall, brown cattail plants grew along the banks; clouds of gnats conglomerated

above them.

Meandering around the banks and weaving their way through the marsh were small,

black and brown ducks. Their webbed feet seemed to be paddling to the beat of the waves as

they combed the area for a snack. The ducks would dove under the surface and stuck their

bottoms up in the air, later surfacing with a delectable looking piece of vegetation. Ducklings,

who were now almost the size of their parents, still trailed their mothers, their adolescence

waning. Dragonflies hovered across the water like the stingrays of the air, reflecting green and

red off of their slender bodies. Minute black birds hopped from one tree to another. The trees

were saplings; they stretched their branches in an attempt to catch the last of the summer sun’s
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rays. A patch of sagebrush and overgrown, brown grass remained on a hill, some of the only

visible native species.

A golden dog with curly hair and floppy ears barrelled down the path toward me,

stopping only to glance back at his owner, who was on a bike, to make sure that he was keeping

up. The dog’s tongue lolled out the side of his open mouth as he skipped and galloped away,

leashless, exuding pure happiness, and enjoying the fresh air blowing past his face as he ran. His

owner pedalled faster in an attempt to keep up with the dog, making me wonder who getting the

better workout. The sound of the dog’s paws and the

bikes wheels on the gravel faded as they turned the

corner.

Constant sounds of construction disturbed the

otherwise peaceful setting. The beeping of large trucks,

the pounding of hammers and the whirring of drills

seemed neverending. Two construction workers across

the way sped around in a golf cart to different active

construction sites. Mansions were being meticulously

thrown together on every free eighth of an acre

surrounding the lake. I wondered what these large houses would sell for, what kind of person

would buy them, and what their life might be like, waking each morning and gazing out the

window at the lake. I also wondered who would want to look out their window every morning at

a strange sculpture of a Pacman-like monster riding a bike, a sculpture that, along with many

others like it, had been erected recently all around the neighborhood.
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After sitting under the bridge for a significant amount of time, I migrated along the bank

to one of the many playgrounds that surround the lake. The playground looked like it was

painstakingly spun by a large spider. I threw everything in my hands into the hands of my

boyfriend, Jacob, and commenced my adventure: launching myself up into the maze of ropes.

Memories of climbing webs and bars and hanging by my knees with my hair brushing the ground

surged back—accompanied by a rush of adrenaline. Meticulously placing my hands and feet, I

clung to the ropes, multiple feet in the air with my life in my own hands. Thousands of stories

had been imagined and re-imagined in that very playground一superheroes battling supervillains,

cops chasing robbers robbers, cowboys riding in the desert, families being imagined, or witches

and wizards attending a school or fighting a troll.

I heard a baby calling out and looked towards the sound to see a father walking out on the

sand, holding his small infant to his chest. The father started back to the playground where he

picked up his bike and strapped his baby into a seat on the front of it. The baby enjoyed the view

as she sped along with her father pedalling behind her.

Another father parked his car in front of the playground. He was adorned with tattoos on

his arms and legs. He walked around his car and reached in the passenger door to unbuckle his

son. The young boy ran out onto the playground and directly to the slide, which he slid down

with great velocity. The father wasn’t sure how to act at this park with his son; the man felt out

of place. His son didn’t care.

I retreated down to one of the docks protruding into the water. The sun reflected sharply

off the water. When I knocked sand off the edge of the dock, a duck rushed over and looked up

at me, expecting bread, but receiving small rocks. Small, sparkling fish glided just under the
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surface. Did these creatures know that they were living in a false world, a lake with a concrete

bottom and water pumped from far away, a recreation area for suburban families? The webbed

footprints of the ducks were etched in the counterfeit sandy beaches, paired with those of my

All-Star black Converse and Jacob’s grey Vans. The wind whispered through the grass, created

small waves, and shook the leaves on the trees.