I stood on the sidewalk and stared silently into the front lawn of the house the young boy had led me to. It was an simple house benefitting of a middle to low income family, and despite the waist-level white picket fence strung around it, it had an unusually welcoming aura. Perhaps it was the awkwardly trimmed evergreen bushes that pointedly stood guard next to the doorway. Perhaps it was the swaying tip of a pear tree peering over the rooftop like a child hiding for a surprise. Or yet perhaps it was the barely maintained lawn that even the weeds seemed to call home. Whatever it may be, the eggshell-white walls and browning black rooftop seemed to beckon even a stranger like me to take shelter under its protection.

  With a bright smile plastered across his face, the young boy ran over to the gate of the wooden fence and unhooked the lock that had been carelessly speckled with white paint. The gate creaked open with a tired groan, as if chastising the boy for letting yet another stranger past its defenses. “Come on in,” he seemed to say while he tugged the hem of my shirt and led me to the front door. A seed of expectation seemed to bloom in me then (for what greatness stood behind this door to make the boy so eager to show it to me?), but I soon shriveled into disappointment when the hinges fully swung open. Perhaps confused by my poorly masked expression, the boy lifted one brow before yanking me forward once more. Past the dripping kitchen sink and creaking floorboards we went. Past the mahogany carpet (a color I found quite unusual for such a humble dwelling) riddled with black and brown stains and scattered Lego pieces we navigated. Nevertheless, as we continued through the hallway, I began to understand the reason for the boy’s confusion at my disappointment. From the kitchen, I caught whiff of lunch containers packed carefully with homemade dishes. From the living room I saw a glimpse of a sewing machine and a pair of partially finished matching dresses that had been adorned with cloth flowers and glass beads. From the bathroom, I heard the drip of a shower faucet being caught in a bucket. Forward we walked until we reached the door of our destination. He beckoned me to open, so I reached out my hand and let it settle onto the doorknob that had been worn down by years of wear. Ignoring the ants scurrying across the curtains and window sill of the door, I twisted the knob and widened my eyes at what that greeted me.

  Immediately upon opening the door, I was greeted with a cool fall breeze that carried the sweet smell of overripe fruit that had been left to slowly bake under the warm autumn sun. Before me were two trees with branches intertwined and fruit drooping heavily over their ends. I watched in awe as squirrels scurried from tree to tree, causing the already-overstrained branches to sway in complaint. The boy stopped to laugh at their game of tag before pulling me along once again. “This isn’t what we came for,” his eyes seemed to say.

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  On the right was a medium sized apple tree. Its branches were rugged and abundant with fruit: some late to mature and still as green as the leaves of the tree themselves; others left half-chewed by the creatures that had found an easy dinner. As the boy led me to the left, I admired the melody strung together by the birds and the crisp sensation of the fallen leaves as they ground against my feet. When we stopped at the roots of the next tree, I followed the boy’s finger and stared past the trunk weathered with years of age and the blanket of leaves decorated by ripe pears. Atop the mighty tree stood a small moss-covered hut caressed two sturdy branches. The boy was the first to move. With practiced motions, he grabbed onto the rope ladder and began to ascend. When he had reached the top, he waved for me to come up as well. I stared hesitantly at the ladder. The wooden beams tied loosely to the ropes had long since begun to wear, leaving behind what resembled nothing more than two vines. After steeling myself, I grabbed on tightly and began the ascent. Occasionally, my foot would slip, catching bits and pieces of tree bark with it and exposing the nest of ants that lived beneath. At other times, I would question whether even the rope that had clearly began to fray from repeated use would grow tired of its job would snap, leaving only the rugged branches and overripe pears below to catch me. Despite these thoughts, however, I reached the small house and peered in with deep interest. Moss coated the walls of the structure: some spots still fresh and green and other spots baked to a golden perfection by the moving sun. Broken glass or clear plastic littered the treehouse floor, and a grime-coated barbie doll was stuffed head first into a pile of twigs and leaves in the corner of the house. I climbed in and cleaned off a small spot, leaving a speck of blackened floorboard bear. Slowly, I sat down next to the boy who now wore a sad and nostalgic gaze unbefitting of his age. As a thanks of sorts, I placed my hand atop his head. When I followed his line of sight, I was surprised to see the apple tree had been struck down, leaving nothing but an unfortunate stump behind in memory.

  As I felt the sensation of the young boy’s hair leave my hand, I found myself outside the house peering in from outside where the picket fence once was. Gone were the weeds that had once called the lawn home. Gone was the grass that grew free and wildly, and gone with it as the welcoming aura that seemed to surround the house. Even though time had long passed, I couldn’t help but wonder whether there was still a bucket to catch the dripping faucet, whether the dresses were now completed, and whether the treehouse had crumbled away and left the tree as the boy had left it. As I peered over the newly fitted rooftop, I found myself staring at all that remained standing in memory of the boy that once lived here: the the tip of a pear tree swaying one final goodbye.