A treehouse: a liberating entity that gives you a feeling of superiority over others and opens up new horizons for exploration. A personal space where only you are the master, elevated above the ground. As a nine or ten-year-old like myself, this was my perception of what it meant to have a treehouse, but having one always seemed an impossibility. We lived in the city in an apartment complex, and building a treehouse in a public park was illegal (what a pity). Yet in the corner of my mind, I was constantly thinking about this one pine tree.

The pine tree was located on the same lot as our cottage on the outskirts of Kyiv. Climbing it was always a fun challenge – it had suitable branches for such an activity, neither too sharp nor too thin, but the sticky sap that smelled sickly sweet prevented anyone from easily conquering it. Still, this never stopped me from attempting to overcome the challenges it imposed on a brave climber.

I don’t know what prompted me to begin building. Maybe I rewatched a cartoon or reread the book where I was exposed to the wonders of being hidden from the world in the leaves that tell you tales when a gentle wind blows. Or maybe I had had enough of dreaming about it and wanted to act. What I do know is that an old, rotten, wooden door, which was lying indiscriminately in the yard, became my first base. 

I decided it would be interesting to place it on some of the pine branches that were located directly above the ground; not too low where my siblings would be able to get onto it, nor too high where I would feel uncomfortable. Completely ignoring all safety precautions, I took this door and went to the tree. It was riddled with cobwebs and felt rough and wet to the touch. I used all the strength I could muster and managed to install it. I felt proud. Not just proud for having put a door of my size and my weight onto the branches, but also for my independence, since I hadn’t asked my parents for help. I could now go to my newly-built shelter anytime and it would only be me and my adventures.

My parents eventually noticed me frequenting the pine. They were probably thinking that my desire to have a treehouse would soon go away, but it never did and they were accepting and supportive of that. They suggested using better wood – they bought me a brand new wood plank. For me, this meant an exciting renovation and, of course, I couldn’t say no. 

My dad helped me place the new plank onto the tree branches and it was already looking amazing. The possibilities of more horizons to explore arose. But something felt off – there was no roof. I couldn’t put another plank above it, since there were no suitable branches for that, and just when I was about to give up, my mother came up with a brilliant idea: we could use old clothes as a cover. My mom automatically discounted all the clothes that had holes in them, and while it made sense that having a roof with holes was an irrational idea, I figured we could use them as walls with windows. My secret base became a treehouse with a colourful roof and walls. I started inviting the neighbourhood kids to play with me in the treehouse since every character I had ever heard of never explored anything new on his own. My mom would give us some snacks, and we would be sitting on this smooth plank with a detachable roof playing UNO. It felt freeing.

As time passed, my interest in the countryside started decreasing. I was getting older, and the desire to spend weekends in the city with WiFi and my friends was overcoming the desire to go to our cottage. Now, my siblings were old enough to climb the ladder to what used to be my hideout. Their presence and constant desire to “hang out with older brother” no longer made this place special to me. I should have listened to my mom when she said that someday I would miss our cottage.

Then the war started. I haven’t been to my cottage in more than two years. I now realize that my mom was right about it – that I would miss it one day. But the first thing that comes to my mind when I hear the word “cottage” is the pine tree with my treehouse. It turns out that the ambitions of being elevated above the ground and exposed to adventures never faded away. They were just overshadowed by my teenage perception of the “perfect weekend”. 

I miss my treehouse. I miss decorating it with old holey clothes. I miss climbing a ladder up and down just to get there. I miss eating cupcakes while playing UNO with my friends. I miss it all, despite it being just a wooden plank on a pine tree for everyone but me.