Closed Skies
Closed Skies
Houses of the Wholly
October 6, 2019
In The Sky
Revlon remembers the treehouse her neighbor spent the whole summer building.
There would be sawing in the morning, hammering in the afternoon and subtle signs of progress by sunset.
She thought it was a huge treehouse, by treehouse standards, spanning the splay of five huge branches which sprang from the trunk of the mighty tree which reached from the dirt into the sky, standing at least 70 feet at the tip of its highest leaves.
The treehouse was about halfway up, Revlon thought. And the ladder’s steps nailed to the tree's body looked difficult to traverse. But her neighbor did it every day, armed with wood planks, a hammer and nails as he climbed higher and built more.
He was an old man, Revlon thought. Gray hair and glasses, he must have been 50 or 51. But he was agile and strong.
And the treehouse grew.
By Labor Day the walls had gone up.
By October there was a red flag on top.
And then on a sunny, exquisite fall day with the leaves losing their timidity and football in every breath, a sign was affixed on the treehouse's side, which faced Revlon's view.
KEEP OUT.
From the day the sign went up she never saw her neighbor again.
The leaves fell followed by rain, then snow, then more and more incessant passage of nature and time.
And the treehouse stood as stubborn and proud as the tree itself.
Revlon remembers.--TK
Sunday, October 6, 2019