UNTITLED by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
I used to play on this treehouse when I was a kid. As I grew over the years, it changed too. It used to have a roof and walls on it. When I outgrew the ceiling, off it went. When there just wasn’t enough space within the walls to comfortably contain three friends carrying an arsenal of water guns and water balloons, off they came.
Occasionally I will climb up the stairs, avoiding the rotted out step, and sit up there during summer time, my back against the rough bark of the crab apple tree, drinking a beer, thinking about life, and maybe, every few minutes, looking around for the red or yellow flash of a water balloon flung my way.