Jan 13


Six hours and 31 minutes away from where I live is the Virginia Creeper Trail. A couple miles into the trail from the Tenessee side, there is a tree with a house built on it. A treehouse.
My grandmother owns the treehouse, and the surrounding land off the trail. 
This year, because of the pandemic that we all know too well for our tastes, I went to the treehouse at least three times this past summer. I tell my mother I never want to go each time, but in reality, the treehouse is sort of my home away from home. I love waking up early in the morning to see colors blend on the horizon like an artist's painting; love the dew that gently outlines the fragile spiderwebs strung from tall stalks of grass; love the deer that frolic in the fields and perk their heads up at the slightest sound. 
The tree itself is gorgeous. There are many family photos of that tree, some in black and white and some in normal color. The fact that something so majestic that helps us live can hold up an insurmountable amount of weight is just suprising to me. This one tree has given my family so much pleasure and joy from just existing. While the tree is prone to long, black snakes that make my mother scream at the top of her lungs sometimes, the treehouse is a wonderful and sacred place to my family.