"Hunting through the ferns of the vacant lot across the street, I was staking out territory in the bizarre game that as kids in the neighborhood, only we knew we were playing. I returned home only when the streetlights came on, caked in mud, my knees bruised, crowing about victory like a rooster to my confused parents."
Love the recollection of shared memories, "only we knew we were playing." Love the wonder, and sadness of loss.
Beautiful, wild girl. Love reading about her. Also I have some real feelings about The Giving Tree now that I read it as an adult. Why does she keep apologizing for having nothing left to give?! (I know, I know…)
"That gone with it was some small part of eight-year-old me, a part that maybe had to go, but not yet. Not yet."
When I was 10, I had a hideout I'd built underneath a mass of honeysuckle. It was made of massive sticks I'd found, leaned against each other to create a little canopy held together by vines. I kept little childhood treasures in it and hid out there with books after school. When I was 11, my parents added on to the house and the builders tore it all down and threw it away while I was at school to make room for supply storage.
It's odd the way something so simple can become so integral in childhood to our sense of self. That place had been mine and had been a safe haven, and it felt like losing some piece of me permanently. I tried to rebuild, tried other options, but it was never the same.
I felt very seen in this one, and even though it's been 26 years since I came home to find my little piece of safety gone, I think reading this helped heal and old wound.
More tree content!!! There’s a seed there. Life lived, moments seen in context of the branches the surround, support, witness.
"Hunting through the ferns of the vacant lot across the street, I was staking out territory in the bizarre game that as kids in the neighborhood, only we knew we were playing. I returned home only when the streetlights came on, caked in mud, my knees bruised, crowing about victory like a rooster to my confused parents."
Love the recollection of shared memories, "only we knew we were playing." Love the wonder, and sadness of loss.
Beautiful
Beautiful, wild girl. Love reading about her. Also I have some real feelings about The Giving Tree now that I read it as an adult. Why does she keep apologizing for having nothing left to give?! (I know, I know…)
"That gone with it was some small part of eight-year-old me, a part that maybe had to go, but not yet. Not yet."
When I was 10, I had a hideout I'd built underneath a mass of honeysuckle. It was made of massive sticks I'd found, leaned against each other to create a little canopy held together by vines. I kept little childhood treasures in it and hid out there with books after school. When I was 11, my parents added on to the house and the builders tore it all down and threw it away while I was at school to make room for supply storage.
It's odd the way something so simple can become so integral in childhood to our sense of self. That place had been mine and had been a safe haven, and it felt like losing some piece of me permanently. I tried to rebuild, tried other options, but it was never the same.
I felt very seen in this one, and even though it's been 26 years since I came home to find my little piece of safety gone, I think reading this helped heal and old wound.