I once wanted a treehouse in a backyard, a ladder leading up to safe square freedom. at least my brother got the smaller room and chlorine glistened in the backyard pool. Mossy basement carpet to a mossy forest, and through a gate we ventured out into arms of green maples and ash. the murmured promise of friends, Their evidence in the form of rope swings slackening. with my carbon-copy notepad: we were pioneers, park rangers, prowling a ring of knobbly mushrooms, tree trunks, to leave our messages. All summer long we skipped the cool pool water in the forest we waited for a response. We played hide and seek to locate our own treasures, follow the maps we made— Why did we need someone else to find us? And even when I was certain the swift lonely breeze meant I wouldn’t find my way back—here was the bridge, here the pebbled path, leading to the pond Freezing over in the winter, the fishes slow circling underneath. Here, the road home. Soon, red and brown leaves would drop into the pool, small dead frogs caught spinning in bright blue water. When we left I took down each form and tree, in a disposable camera, safe square memories. they told me it was certain if we followed the trail we would find ourselves home. As certain As more dead things in the pool filter, and pond ice melting to reveal the fishes underneath. And new family finding the camera I never packed, finally discovering evidence we were there. I don’t know why I thought we’d keep going round, like unwary pool frogs— swerving into the lull of the filter.
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Connie W Chen is a writer and engineer from the Bay Area. Her work has been published in Local Wolves and Beyond Words Literary Magazine. Outside of writing she enjoys film photography and fashion styling.
