The Glass Window

It was always me who scrambled up the rope ladder to the treehouse, while my sister, Abby,
frolicked around the loft and frosty grass, scrutinizing the patches of wet clovers to find a
four-leafed clover.
“I’ve found one! Look Paige!” my sister persisted eagerly.
Her crest-fallen face confirmed that it was in fact, a three-leafed clover, fuelling her
motivation to find the four-leafed clover, while I scurried around the treehouse trying to find
the right furniture and items to make the perfect reading zone. I thought the surroundings
were surreal. You could see the sunshine glisten the morning dew on the ever-changing
leaves as each season passes. Our parents supervised us in the backyard, smiling as I ran
towards them, asking for a wooden chair to be placed in the treehouse.

It wasn’t until a few days later, after I had successfully finished creating my personal reading
den, that I heard the glass window crack. I peeked out of the window from the treehouse and
gasped, placing my hand to my mouth to muffle my scream. Glass fragments were scattered
onto the bitumen floor, a stray ball near the scene. My eyes pinpointed Abby, who was curled
up into a ball and coughing from the tears that poured down like a dam overflowing.
“Mummy! Daddy!”, Abby sobbed.
My parents rushed over to her and hugged her tightly.
“Is everything alright? What happened?” asked my parents.
“I a-accidentally hit the ball with the cricket bat and… i-it ended up hitting the window!”
Abby blubbered.
“Don’t worry. It was an accident. We all make mistakes. Did you know that glass is made out
of sand?”
“Really?”
“Yes! It’s like the sand from the beach. Do you remember the beach?”

*
I remembered it. Vividly. I wasn’t sure about Abby however, because she was just a baby
when we went to the beach. I remember the smell of the fresh, salty air and the deep blue
waves crashing onto the shore, as I attempted to cup the foam with my hands before the next
set of waves threatened to pull me into the vast ocean. I remember the undisturbed soft sand
that no one had trampled on and I remember dragging my plastic bucket to the man-made
lagoon nearby to mix dry sand with water while the seagulls goggled at me. The one moment
that keeps replaying in my mind is when Abby was stung by a blue bottle and the tentacles
which attached to her leg made blisters on her skin. I think that’s why she hates the beach
nowadays.
Maybe that’s why she won’t climb up the rope ladder to my treehouse.