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Turninreadyfinalessay 2 Draft 6 Revision 3
Turninreadyfinalessay 2 Draft 6 Revision 3
Turninreadyfinalessay 2 Draft 6 Revision 3
Macaleigh Hendricks
Ms.Andaluz
English 100
8 October 2015
My Second Home
Race ya! Savannah shouts, bolting toward the woods without a second thought.
Im so gonna beat you! I yell as loud as I can, running as fast as my tiny legs will carry
me.
We weave in between trees decorated in red and orange leaves as the fresh fall air
conforms around us. Flying wood chips, flattened purple tulips, and muddy footsteps leave a
mischievous trail to the beloved treehouse that lay triumphantly in the distance. My breath heavy
and legs exhausted, I finally reach the base of the small log treehouse. My hands eagerly grasp
the cold wooden ladder and I giggle all the way up. The sound ricochets throughout the dense
forest of dark green pine trees, finding its way back to my ears several seconds later. The
massive door swings open with a creek, and I am quickly enveloped in the warm hug that is the
treehouse. The relaxing air inside contrasts with the chilly autumnal air outside. Soft beige
blankets and corny decorations cover the interior and give the treehouse a homey feeling. The
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house is made of hand cut wood that is bound together in an inviting way; it is stained brown
with light scratches and dents, which only adds to the character. I comb my fingers along the
In its early days the treehouse smelled of freshly cut wood and nature. As time has
progressed it has adopted the smell of our favorite foods--crackers, cream cheese, and cornbread.
In the dead center of the treehouse, a dartboard hangs on an otherwise empty wall with a
picture of Mackenzie, the vicious bully, firmly planted in its edges. Tattered old journals filled
cover-to-cover with random doodles and, Who do you like? 5th grade entries are stacked on
shelves in the dimly lit corner. Bright pink fluorescent flamingo lights line the low-hanging
ceiling, advertising the innocent aspect of our youth. The small floor is drowned in a sea of
brightly colored school worksheets and textbooks. The dark-blue carpet threatens to peel up at
the corners and expose the untouched wood underneath at any second.
Extravagant patterns of light spill through the windows that lack glass; they are now just
jagged rectangular holes in the walls with shutters to disguise them. I open the windows, which
lets in a refreshing wave of cool fresh air that gently brushes back my brunette hair.
Beyond the windows there is a small front porch. It is so small that even my minuscule
10-year-old body cannot stand on it. I have to perch myself between the almost-falling-apart
railing and the nearby tree for balance. It perfectly serves its purpose of seeing below, however.
Savannahs ant-sized unkempt head makes its way across the blanket of leaves covering the
Finally, Savannah comes climbing up the ladder, frizzy hair and all. Her cheeks are
Shut up. she unsuccessfully tries to say without emotion, a small smile fighting for
Its your turn. I say, handing her a pencil and the journal that we share. She eagerly tugs
at the bright red covered-in-tape notebook and opens it to a fresh page. We sit and eat saltine
crackers with cream cheese, a staple of our childhood which is oddly a delicious combination. I
watch her furiously scribble away at the pages, her eyebrows slowly un-knitting themselves and
her face returning to its normal calm expression. The journal is a way for us to escape in our own
Savory scents of smores and fall leaves waft into the treehouse from a campfire outside,
allowing me to sit and marvel at the utter perfection of the moment. Campfire songs etch their
names in the silence as they echo throughout the emptiness. The sun and earth delicately whisper
to each other in clouds of orange and pink as the sun falls over the glowing tree-lined horizon.
We turn off our pink flamingo party lights and watch the earth move for a while, for the
darkness is too lovely to ignore. The stars glow in such a fascinating way that we cannot seem to
spend enough time gazing at. Our eyes are glued to our surroundings like the way newlyweds
eyes are glued to each other at the altar--scared of what is to come, but excited to find out. Our
souls are intricately sewn together with the treehouse's to create an unbreakable bond. The world
is peaceful and wholesome through the comforting filter of our precious treehouse.
Little did we know that one day we would be separated. The treehouse would be stretched
across four thousand miles. However, with the right kind of friendship, the wood does not crack
and break. It stands strong even 11 years later, its roots firmly planted in the earth as it
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challenges, What else ya got? The treehouse is a place where we can rekindle our friendship
even after years of deafening silence; the time is erased like pencil markings as if we were never