Inspired by Mark Twain

It was my tree house, my very own tree house (well, it was my neighbor’s and mine). I remember the day well; the whole neighborhood chipped in together, and helped make two little kids’ dreams come true. How could they have known that our dream, when made into a reality, became a bridge into adulthood for us willing little children? But, Ah! The tree house (our very own, by the way) had cute barred windows, perfect for Rapunzel to let down her hair to the eager prince waiting below; and through a wonderfully large doorway, one could enter the realm of the rich, the grand ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers by our own imaginations; the creek below, each sunbeam reflected off the water turned into a shimmering jewel, was a wonderful place to sail our tiny makeshift leaf boats; the smell of fresh wood from the lumber yard filling up our clever sniffing puppy noses; leaves, green and yellow and brown and gold, covered the floor of our tree house like a rough carpet; hissing cicadas shouted harsh words (that we children pay no heed to), because we were sure that they were jealous because they had no tree house of their own; and the vines lifted up their fleshy green limbs reaching towards the sun’s kind rays. We were proud of our tree house. We were exhilarated. We were young.

We lived in a world where magical fairies lived in the brush, where daring princesses always got their princes, and a little pixie dust could heal any wound. However, my friends, Time, that old girl we all know so well, lives by a different schedule. She is an evil thing, pulling us each day farther from innocence: from childhood. Now, the tree house had lost its glory, and each detail was seen through older eyes. The barred windows were put there by responsible adults to keep silly little children from falling out, the careless things; and the door and ceiling were just another thing to bump my poor head on, how unfortunate for it that is sat atop my current 5 foot 6 inches; the creek’s “jewels” had all been stolen, its waters stagnant, dirty, and unsafe; dilapidated wood covered the walls, attacked year after year by termites, paint, and children’s fingers; the many leaves only representing the passage of Time and years lost from our lives; the cicadas now screamed of the heat and convinced us that it was too hot to play outside today (maybe another day); and the vines seemed to have a wicked new purpose, they were intent on strangling the very tree that supported the tree house, and if that happened, what would become of it?

No, the tree house was never the same to me, and instead of dreaming to be a princess myself, I now pity them. Imagine being born into a beautiful palace, excited for the day when you would be crowned queen and rule the land. But, how soon would wandering the many palace halls bore you? When would the beautiful crown mean nothing more to you that a coming burden that will weigh you down for the rest of your life? And, would it be far too late, when you realize that you took the grand ceiling and crystal chandeliers for granted? When would that certain princess wish that she still lived among the fairies once again?