570 Church Street

As it stood, it was not only a house but an heirloom in the making, a crest. It was not a house of excess or extravagance, but it was perfect for the two that would call it home. Their journey was just beginning, the one that generations would come to know as their history, their roots. In 1955, the house was completed: the bright red roof, the exposed concrete between bricks, the lamp that would one day flicker as a beacon for bedtime.  The knotty pine left its farm-side view for that of four walls; it snaked its way through the living room, down the hall, under the bed, in the closet, and anywhere else the eye might dare to search for it. The structure itself seemed to become the tree that warped around it. The house became its new roots and, as this tree's growth came to an end, a new one gained life. The multiplication of inhabitants occurred steadily year by year; two became three then four until eight beings of pure magic lived inside of this brick palace. Outside, the well to worlds unknown glistened with an air of possibility, the top of the reaching pines seemed infinite from below. Each pebble, stick, and dandelion had the ability to be anything one could dream of.

As time went on, they became less magical to those that once held them dear. Slowly, steadily, the inhabitants left until only its reliable two remained in its heart. This, like everything, came to pass as the six thought to have abandoned the tree returned with their own little treasures. Years went by, and more treasures arrived one after the other. The lazy hills were perfect for somersaults, the wagons held more than they comfortably seated. Knees were bruised, tears were shed, heads were thrown back in laughter. The tree undeniably changed; throughout it all, though, it remained constant and beloved. These new visitors became twenty altogether, and they, too, left like those before. They began their own journeys, finding their own trees and treasures along the way. Eventually, the two constants became one. But this one was possibly the most important of all, and her love and devotion to the tree ensured its safety.

I am unsure of the last time I visited the tree; I sometimes avoid it as my ignorance preserves those little fractures of magic and makes their existence seem more golden. There are new treasures there now; they peer into my well, they climb my trees, they roll down my hills. They sit where I ate my birthday cakes and cinnamon rolls that were sworn to be devoid of raisins but never really were. I understand that for magic to be perpetuated it must be shared; it will lose its glow if its hoarded and dissected. I hope that tree still hugs its walls every night and the corners of the bed sheets are tucked just so. It would be a shame for such a beautiful kingdom to lose its magic without making a few more stories.