Under construction, a work in progress. Awkward, covered in plywood. But shelter nonetheless.
Look closer: a secret clubhouse, a tree fort.
The tree is old, and parts of it are dead. But still, it’s full of life: leaves, squirrels, lichen, a tangle of red bugs. It’s late spring or early summer. It’s sunny, but the wind is damp and sweet.
In the treehouse there’s a girl with messy hair and a big laugh. She’s telling the bugs a ridiculous story about a real live lion that was knitted from alpaca fur. It sailed to Antarctica in a mosaic boat made from broken teacups.
Is it the girl? Is it the bugs? Is it the tree? Is it the treehouse, or the lion story?
It is all that and a bag of chips.
It is Home.