Hello, Sigmund. It’s me.

Yes, again.

I’m fine, really. No, really I am. I’m over the whole, you know… thing. I don’t even think about it anymore. Ever. Except when I’m walking around and I look up and there one is. Have you noticed how they’re everywhere?? Is it just me? They’re everywhere, right?

It’s just that I don’t really understand what the problem ever was. I mean, the guy could make anything. He built real houses, the on-the-ground kind, the kind people live in, have keys for. He tore apart and rebuilt the inside of our bungalow at least twelve hundred times. Nothing was ever a problem. Give him a few pieces of wood, some nails, and he could knock you up whatever you wanted. A couch, bookshelves, carport, fence, spice rack—the sky was the limit.

So you’ll excuse me if I find it hard to fathom that when I made my (what I still believe to be miniscule) request, he stood there and said—as if this made any sense at all: sorry, kiddo, the pear tree isn’t big enough for a tree house.

I can tell you, Sigmund, I nearly dropped my ice cream cone right there and then. Neopolitan.

Oh yeah? I wanted to say. Well, dad, it sure as hell looks big enough from where I stand…

But I didn’t say anything. Shock probably. And then he went whistling off in some direction, and eventually I took my neopolitan and my skipping rope and went slurping off in another, and that, I guess, was supposed to be that.

Thing is, Sigmund. Every other tree in the world is big enough… have you noticed?? Every other tree.  In the world.

But it doesn’t matter.

I’m fine.

Really.

I’m going to have a lactose-free cone now. Vanilla.

And if you don’t mind I’d like to be alone.

Best treehouse ever…? Click here.

That—in a pear tree—would do nicely thank you.
Is that asking too much??

(Late addition, because I will keep adding them as I find them: tree villa)