IT WAS ROOTED IN THE MOST COINCIDENTAL OF PLACES, the old crabapple tree that jutted from the ground just beyond the back porch. The tree’s burgeoning branches, thick with fruit, plunged to the patio with the breeze as the tiny apples created a land mine of prospective mess. The sappy, textured bark had segued to gray, skin that had seen decades pass preserving the tree’s entrails.
A horizontal plank fastened near the base suggested inhabitants, and several others above confirmed, the numerous punctures in the wood coinciding with frequent repositioning of each step. Branches — one on the left, the other on the right — served as buttresses, their disposition summoning climbers to curl an arm around each before pushing off from the loftiest step. With a quick thrust, one’s weight was unfurled upon the rickety floor of 19 Shirley Court, No. 9 Crabapple Tree.
Salvaged shreds of lumber from deconstructed fences formed an encasement barely big enough for two, with gaping holes that had the potential of doors or windows, though their intention was neither. Rusty nails and screws poked out of every plank, gesticulating a child’s inability to force them any further into the wood. Crooked coats of peeling lime green and periwinkle paint scoured the structure, colors chosen for their boisterous and welcoming nature that best suited the wood they concealed.
A discolored plastic roof suspended overhead, the leftovers of the old porch awning. It was a high rise, with a second, and third story, each consisting only of a petty board to sit on after a laboring afternoon among the branches. The leaves gave way to a cooling shade in gratitude for a job well done; scraps melded into a beautiful eyesore of decrepit wood and a child’s imagination, three stories high and growing…
…and life was well-constructed.
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