by Grace Brentley

Created on: July 31, 2008

Standing outside the rusted gate, I can see the faded, rotten remnants of the glorious tree house behind a thick curtain of leaves. It looks so sad now, so lonely that it's nearly impossible to believe we spent so many summer afternoons up there.

When I was young, I spent every afternoon at my friend Tiffany's house. My parents were strict and my life was boring. She lived alone with her eccentric mother in a Victorian house that legend said was haunted. Her room was in the attic, and we could hear strange creaks and moans at night. Her mother had an antique store and drove an antique car. Her house was surrounded by a wrought iron gate and the backyard was so full of trees, shrubs, flowers, and plants that there was barely any room to take a step. In the center of the yard was a beautiful, thick oak tree that must have been a hundred years old. It was here that her mom's handyman built us a treehouse.

It was a simple structure, nothing more than a wooden platform with four corner beams. We nailed three pieces of wood to the trunk to form a makeshift ladder. The walls were made of white lattice board. We decorated one wall with pink heart wallpaper that we stuck to the wood with rubber cement. It was simple in design, but it meant so much more to us.

It was where we went to talk about heartache, boys, and where we were going on summer vacations. It was where we would camp out in our sleeping bags and watch for shooting stars. It was where we decided on our latest adventure, from lemonade stands to a brief stint at tennis. It was where we had big fights and big laughs. It was our escape during the magical moments of summer, when starting back to school seemed decades away instead of months.

Sadly, neither our friendship nor the treehouse survived the years. Tiffany became a popular cheerleader during high school and I became a nerdy band geek. We drifted apart and graduated as mere acquaintances. Now, years later, when I go home to visit my parents, I sometimes find myself wandering by her house. It's vacant now, with weeds and overgrown shrubbery threatening to take over the yard. The house is in terrible shape, with peeling paint and a sagging roof.

And the poor little treehouse looks so pathetic up there, so old and so tiny. But it's still there. All of it-the memories of carefree summer days, friendship lost, and even the faded pink heart wallpaper-is still there.

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