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As the crisp summer sky turned his favorite shade of auburn, Wilson sat on the planks of wood in front of his home fiddling with his matchbook. Wilson was especially aware this evening. There were hundreds of ants flocking to a dropped ice cream cone three sidewalk squares over. Four squares in the opposite direction he noticed a rainbow drawn in chalk. He heard an ambulance blaring its sirens as it rushed to the nearby hospital. Wilson checked the time on his phone, 7:32. He got up, and began to walk.
Walking through the gangway seemed different than it usually did. He felt the homes were closer together than normal. Wilson stretched his arms wide open and was saddened when his fingers tips did not touch the grey bricks of both homes. The homes were no closer than normal. Wilson passed through the rusted green gate in which he had inscribed his name years before and slammed it shut. He walked through the backyard. He noticed a squirrel poking it’s head in the grill, looking for food. The blue tarp blocking off the hole of the house waved in the wind. Wilson walked right up to the old oak tree and climbed his way up to the tree house.
The horrid memories that the tree house held flooded his brain. Wilson remembered the cold nights he spent inside to escape the fighting inside the house. The whistle of the wind through the only window sent chills up his spine. The days where his father yelled that he was worthless and suggested he walk out the door and never come back overtook his memory.
That moment was when Wilson decided.
He climbed down the tree and stood at the base and dug deep inside his pocket and pulled out his matchbook. Ironically the matchbook was from the tavern his father spent the time he should have spending with Wilson. There were four matches left. He thought that if he went through with his plan he would never have to relive the pain again. That every time he looked out the back window of his home and saw nothing but grass he would feel peace. As he stuck a match he heard the rusted gate open, he quickly blew out the match.
A young boy walked into the backyard. He was about nine or ten years old, his shorts were covered in grass stains and both elbows had scabs the size of quarters.
“Whatcha doin’ mister?”
“Just checking out the ole tree house,” Wilson somewhat lied.
“Did you and your Dad build it?”
“When I was about your age, my Dad and I spent three days building this.”
“Well I was thinkin’, I just moved here, and I don’t have a Dad. Momma said he went away and ain’t never coming back. But if I had a Dad, I know he would build a tree house with me. And you look too old for a tree house anyways, so can I have yours?”
Wilson chuckled to himself, “Can you have my tree house?”
“Please?” the young boy asked with an infectious smile.
It might have been the smile of the boy, or the honesty that only kids of that age hold. It may have been the hope that the tree house could be filled with memories of joy instead of pain, or just a rash decision. But whatever it was, Wilson obliged.
“It’s yours kid,” was all Wilson could manage to say.
Emotions overwhelmed him, and what else was said only the little boy knows. Wilson dug inside his right pocket and pulled out his matchbook. He struck a match, leaving only two, and lit his cigarette. He sat smoking at the base of the old oak tree and admiring the auburn sky.
