When I was twelve . . . When was I twelve again?
I was entering into second form or for some of you, eighth grade, at a new school.
I was living in the heart of the city, in a small apartment complex. Newly built and empty. Me, myself, and I. Empty halls and empty rooms, vacant parking spaces, unused clothing lines, and untouched gardens. Seeing new faces, meeting new people who’d rather be left alone.
I spent most of my time in a tree. The East Indian mango tree. It was as tall as the building itself, difficult to get into and out of, but once up there, I felt on top of the world. Overlooking the grounds below, discreetly hidden from the passers-by, the family.
I spent my summer reading Anansi stories in that tree . . . can’t find said books now though but I loved reading in that tree. I’d read to the lizards, and the ants. A humming-bird would zoom by every now and then but they were hardly interested.
The mangoes would fall from the tree and cover the ground below. Yellow splattered on the walkway, bodies of mangoes split open and spewing their yellow innards for the world to see. The birds pecked at them and the neighbouring cats had their pickings.
I could never have any of the mangoes; they always had worms.
No one’s ever been in that tree either. That tree was my place. Mine alone. My humble abode. My shelter, harbour, and hidden alcove.
If I could build a tree-house, it would be in that tree. And then my mom would have to invite me over for dinner . . . every night. Because I’d eat, sleep, live, and watch tv in that tree.
Writing 101: Day 11 – Size Matters