The Tree House

A writing exercise done after drawing a floor plan to one of the houses I lived in when I was a child.

The Tree House

Our first house in Darwin was like a tree house, not only because it was up on stilts, but because it was surrounded by tall umbrella trees. Their bright-green, plastic-like leaves fanned out in a circle, like a natural version of their namesake. The foliage was so thick that you couldn’t see in or out, hiding the rest of the neighbourhood and creating the illusion of isolation. Red berries attracted rainbow lorikeets. They would make so much noise you could barely hold a conversation without shouting.

The best part was the louvers. They reached from ceiling to floor, as is common in tropical environments, to help the air circulate. When they were all opened, it felt like there was no wall at all, just like the tree house I had when I was younger.

My little tree house was just a platform in a very low tree, simply made by my father. Yet in my imagination it became so many things; a house to play families with my dolls, a school, a church. There I recreated the world I experienced as I thought it should be.

Yet, the house in Darwin was a real house, my very own Swiss family Robinson hideaway, with all the amenities. I especially loved it in the wet season, when the afternoon storm would come, bringing with it the smell of rain. The wind whipped through the house, relieving the stifling humidity of the day. The trees came alive, moving in harmony with the storm, a counter point to the thunder. I felt so alive at that time, like I too was part of the wild storm symphony.