My Tree House
My daddy built me a tree house in the top of twin cottonwood trees
I wondered if he knew what he was doing at first, for I watched every step
He started with a wooden garage door and cut two squares out of the sides.
I said nothing, being ten, respectful, and knowing better. This was 1962.
I was amazed when he pushed that door down into those trees.
It was a marvelous fit. This was the floor of the best treehouse in the world.
The bark of a cottonwood is white with gray slivers, and it holds lots of ants.
I spent three or four summers in that treehouse reading books.
I read biographies, mysteries, and books on the supernatural.
Sometimes I took a sandwich up, and something to drink.
Don’t ask me how I got the drink up there, because I do not remember.
My identical twin stayed in the house to vacuum, dust, clean, and bake.
Spied on neighbors from this blind; watched them hang out their clothes.
Listened the Dellabettas argue in their beautifully fast Italian language.
Heard my mother laughing with her friend Pat. They had fabulous laughs.
These memories make me smile; I emphatically loved that treehouse!
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