Lying On the Floor of My Treehouse

I am an eleven-year-old giant, lying on the floor of my treehouse. The cottonwood trees have a smell you cannot get anywhere else. They cherish our time together; I know because I am loved here. My books are stacked up next to me. I have a pillow. It’s getting dusty. Lack of excitement about this missive leads my eyes to stray. I watch an ant crawling across the floor in front of me I could smash him but I do not. His bold big blackness fascinates me. He is larger than other ants, and he is carrying a cracker crumb. I eat crackers and butter up here, not realizing who else benefits. An angry voice pierces the day; Mrs. Rutherford is yelling at her mate. He pokes his head out, but does not reply. He is terrified of her. So many of us are. I duck down, wondering if she has seen me. Doubtful, she is a focused woman, and Mr. R. is getting her mind. A tittering giggle floats up. Patty from across the street has a beau. That weirdo is over there. I shut this book and open another one. The library lets me take out seven each day.