The Treehouse on Trolley Line

Avalene Barber—Honorable Mention, Glimmerglass Festival Youth Writing Competition
Grade 12, Cooperstown Central School

The neighborhood on Trolley Line Road has become the only home I have ever known, where eight lawns of luscious grass or seasoned crystalline snow surrounded me. I may appear a simple treehouse built for small children, but I carry so much more.

Morning

I used to sit perched atop a hill. I humbly served as the gathering spot, the meeting in the middle. Every day began with “I’ll see you at the treehouse!” The day is young, a warm summer day perfect for spending outside. New faces delight us with their presence, including my own. I arrived at my permanent childhood home. In this quaint cul-de-sac everything once felt like magic. The morning sun glowed down on us, warning of the later heat it will bring. We were young and ignorant to the world outside our own. The children played silly games and thought up little activities together, connecting with each other. This is the most significant part of my home, the connections people made.

Midday

Hours have passed. “The fun will never end!” our naive selves believed. The sun’s rays beat down brightly. Mothers would advise “stay out of the sun!” But how could we resist such a beautiful day, such a beautiful moment? Everyone took their interactions for granted: an afternoon by the creek, sharing a meal, all of it. The neighborhood had a tendency to come together, celebrating the simple fact we were all here. I am still atop the hill, enjoying the view of smiling faces and sounds of laughter. I continue to provide shelter, shade, and a safe place to rest.

Evening

Evening parties were the best! Everyone gathered, pouring out of houses. The house across from me would host large birthday parties. My favorite part would be when darkness fell and only the moon or a small flashlight would light the way. Then we would all play manhunt, and I was the center of the game. Whispered evenings would consist of streaming shows or movies, shared food, and conversing. Soon, everyone will return home for refuge, sleepovers occurring often to cherish every single moment left together. The spare room above my neighbor’s garage became a safe haven. These nights no longer exist here, instead they are filled with quiet, nostalgic medleys.

Night

Everything is different now. While I am comfortable, I also feel alone. Where once celebration was day and night, uniting the people who brought you joy, there is now a longing silence. A fence was built behind me, separating what was once our land. I watched everyone grow up and leave; just like that, I am no longer needed. “The kids are all grown, we don’t need the old treehouse anymore.” I hope the next generation will make the connections we made because of the cul-de-sac on Trolley Line Road.