treehouse

on endings

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The final visit was never meant to happen. I intended to have everything finished days before; wrote a little note and tucked it inside a book, found a bottle, heard it clink softly in the footwell of the car parked down the road that I’d hired by the minute. These were to be my last few hours in Treehouse, carefully undoing the screws that had held the shelves that had held my books. Making good. Making my way.

But two screws were stubborn and there were holes I’d forgotten about and, shoulder aching, I text the builder I always text, and here I was waiting for him to make his way through the traffic to remove them. It was freezing but I sat on the balcony anyway. Heard a woodpecker’s efforts ricochet through the cold air.

I have not lived here, not spent a night here, in nearly five years, but nor have I managed to let go.