This playhouse was built 35 years ago by my grandfather. Emma showed a new interest in the little structure during this last visit to our family cabin. Together we packed our lunches up the hill and ate inside the cozy A-frame. We colored. We read. We laughed. It brought me back to all those times as a child that I used to trudge up to my miniature house alone and sit, arms wrapped around my legs, chin on my knees, peering up at the tall Montana pines overhead.
Sometimes I sang and wrote; other times I cried. Mostly, I just thought and thought about my life and place in the world. Inside my playhouse, I always felt safe and as we all know, that’s a feeling that’s hard to leave. It’s interesting to me that, as an adult, those feelings don’t change.