“Letting Go”
That lady is back again. Shebrings another family to see me and my house. As they round the corner, the little boy spies me and races through the gate toward me shouting, “There’s a treehouse!” His parents come closer and realize the more accurate description is there was a treehouse. That’s why so many families visit my house and me. Yet the real estate ad which lures this family here did not lie about me and my eighteen friends.
My house is not in great shape. This family, though, seems different. They spend much longer inside my house than most of the families that lady brings here. I think they decide to stay! I see the family carrying paint cans and other items to fix up those inside places I do not see. At the same time my friends and I love the water they give us, feeling it seeping into our roots and up to our topmost leaves (that’s over forty feet up for me). We like this family!
The parents also promise a repaired treehouse, with safe steps for this young boy to climb. This happens faster than I ever believed! I am again a part of the life of a boy. I find out he is seven years old. My boy adores the treehouse he “helped” build. And because I grow in the corner of the yard and am already middle aged with large, heavy branches to prove it, this treehouse has plenty of room for my boy and his friends—even occasionally for his little sister. At the corner of the yard they become sentries to the neighborhood, the first to tell Mom and Dad when someone in the neighborhood moves, or when they bring home a new baby, or when they get a new pet. And I watch them all grow, keeping a special eye on my boy.
As my boy grows he feels the “need for speed.” That’s when the zip line becomes a part of me. My boy flies through the air to the arms of one of my friends, beginning with a leap from my treehouse. He lifts up his legs and shouts, “Watch me!” to his parents as he swoops to wreck into my friend or sometimes fall off into the green grass below. He laughs (with an occasional cry) and climbs me to do it all over again. And I watch him grow.
Yet all is nothappiness. There comes the day when another love of my boy-his dog-is laid beneath me. For some time no dog races through the yard to my corner to bark at the activities of the neighborhood or dashes to meet my boy when he comes through the gate. One day, though, a small, black dog arrives home with them. My boy has obviously fallen in love with this small bundle of energy. My boy does not realize that one day, almost seventeen years later, this little dog will also lie with me. And I watch my boy grow.
Over time my boy seems to gradually forget about me, even while I still love him abundantly. Now I usually watch him sprint across the deck and through the gate, a set of car keys in hand. I can only hope he still feels the security of his early life spent under and in my arms. Finally my boy moves away. For years I only see him when he visits his parents. He spends time in the yard to visit the dogs he is forced to leave, but he seldom seems to think of me. And each time he eventually leaves me behind as he walks out the gate, while I still watch myboy grow.
After years comes the first visit with these other people—a lady closer to his age and two kids. This boy is not much older than my boy when he first ran through the gate into my yard. It is fall, and I am shedding. Both the kids have a great time raking my leaves and leaping into them, disappearing into the pile and emerging with my leaves sticking to their hair and clothing. Suddenly this new young boy notices the old, abandoned zip line still connecting my friend and me. With a little help from my boy’s dad and something in a spray can, the zip line actually works! As I expected, this new boy drives himself into my friend on the other end. The girl likes it as well, but is more careful of landings. I feel wonderful! Another boy revels in my company once again. Although they leave, walking out the gate, these people come back. I look forward to their visits when I can again cradle a boy with love and acceptance. Still, it is not the same as watching my boy grow.
Someday these people who live here will walk out of the gate for the last time, as did all those who lived here before. Since 1933 my house and I have welcomed multiple boys who loved to spend their time with me. In my second hundred years, I can only hope that when one of those ladies starts bringing around families to see me, a small boy will again race through the gate toward me, allowing me to shelter and hold him close to my heart for a short time before I must let him go.