I want to build you a castle, even though I can barely use a screw driver.
I want to write you a song, one that would make you think of me on a whole new level,
One you could listen to when we're apart.
I want to give you the world, even though it's not mine to give.
I want to do this because I just realized just how much I love you.
Yes, I said it, and it's true.
The only reason I haven't said it is because I want to tell you to your face, not through some screen a million minutes away from me.
You've gone and consumed my mind, and every time I think, you're right there.
I want to make you the happiest person in the world, regardless of whether or not I'm broken.
You deserve so much and I wish you knew just how special you are.
You compare yourself to a pebble, a rock, a stone.
But you are nothing like that. 
You are something beautiful, alive, and in love,
And someday maybe you'll know that.

I look outside my window and I see a collection of trees; no not trees, a collection of memories. I see everything I love and everything I ever want to be. Sure, they’re just trees to some, but to me, they are like family. They bring back the feeling of summer, the crisp air of autumn, the excitement of the first snowfall, and the fresh reminders of spring. Trees grow with you, they sway as you do. They hold all my secrets and wishes, my hopes and my dreams. They remind me of home. The tree that is my deepest secret keeper and dearest friend is the leafy beech. This tree grew up with me, we grew up together. My dad planted it before I was born and as I grew, so did it. It’s the memories of building forts under its coveted shade with my sister and the laughs that are carried away by the wind. It’s feeling the branches creak as I climb to the sky with my soccer cleats still on after practice. The beech tree is the pretty one.

We’ve all heard the classic saying “One person’s trash is another person’s treasure,” but what makes something trash or treasure? What makes someone categorize it as trash? Is it because it's “useless” or maybe it’s because it's worn out? Does it not fit anymore or because the newness wore off? It’s not your style or it was a bad gift. It’s old and worn and a different color than it was when it was new. Spring cleaning is here, it's been collecting dust and it's time for a refresh. 
What about treasure? Maybe because it's shiny or the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? It’s something new to you. It’s a perfect fit or the best color? It may look loved or fresh out of the box, a new adventure. 

I have been through a lot

I have manys scars

Both physical scar

And scars that are from my past

Lots of my memories have scars

So it’s hard for me to think about the good things from my past

I don’t tell many people about my scars

It’s more like they found out

It’s like I keep things from others

I also hope that things will get better

But looking back in the past

Looking back at those scars

I know they won’t

So now I just got to try

And never give up

Even if my scars are holding me back...

 

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. 

It's arms encircle me. The same arms that my mother, my uncle, my aunt; the same arms that embraced them. They climbed the tree, knew it's roots, traced the leaves, years before me. Now, I hide behind it's frail limbs, duck into the burrow that it created. The Grandfather Beech tree.  That was the name it had. The tree let it's roots run wild, imprinting into the ground, and resurfacing and creating another tree, only feet away.  Biking to the tree, and playing house, hide and seek, or maybe we were pirates in search of loot. The branchs hung and swirled around the blocked Wishing well, overgrown by vines. It had became forgotten. The tree remembered it.