How Does a Daffodil Survive in Winter?

xiii | Casual Dining in the Treehouse

Richard (or Richie) Ralph Ryan was nine years old when he was diagnosed with leukaemia. Everyone who stood by his side said he never gave up hope because that's who Richie was; an optimistic boy who was always looking for the bright side. But all the positivity in the world couldn't prevent him from dying.

During his pre-cancer years, Richie loved sports and being outdoors. His father, who had left after his son's death, had filled their backyard with sports equipment, a mini playset and of course, the treehouse.

The treehouse was built more than a decade ago on a large oak tree in the backyard. It was comfortably small but still quite large and was painted green. The paint had faded over the years, because all things deteriorated. Inside, on the back wall was an engraving that said: RICHIE R. RYAN WAS HERE and the rest of the wall was covered with doodles.

Richie spent a lot of his time in that treehouse, often staying up there for hours. One day, when Richie had just turned 9 years old, he was in the tree house drawing this house made of balloons on the wall when he fainted. It left an unfinished drawing and a pen trail right down to where he fell.

Little did Richie, or anyone, know, that was the last time he was in the treehouse. It was his mother, Aunt Kathy, who found him. They rushed him to the hospital where he was diagnosed with leukaemia.

The months that followed were painful memories for the family. Richie became sicker from all the chemotherapy. The treehouse became abandoned in the backyard. It was also financially difficult to sustain his treatments. So, one day, Richie's dad couldn't take it anymore and left.

The last few months of Richie's life was spent alone in the children's hospital, confined to a bed everyday.

He was ten years old when he passed away. I was only seven years old when I attended his funeral along with my Aunt; my mother had disappeared a few days before. It was a short funeral since Richie didn't have a chance to have a full life so there were no tales to tell.

He would be 19 years old today if he hadn't died. But he did and now the only thing that's left was the treehouse, worn-down, depressing and lonely without its owner.

I wondered what Richie would think about me being in his treehouse as I sat on its bare wooden floor looking at the carving of his name on the wall.

A loud crunching sound broke me out of my trance. It was Theo eating a bag of potato chips loudly. I leaned over and took a handful and shoved it in my mouth.

"That's pretty much all there is about this treehouse's slightly depressing story," I concluded.

"So, this is a dead person's treehouse?" Theo asked with his mouth full.

"Basically. Now will you stop getting food everywhere? My aunt will literally kill me if she finds out that I go here all the time and invited you today."

"Sorry," Theo apologised, dusting the crumbs out of the treehouse. "But I doubt she'll murder you. The police will get suspicious if another kid dies in this house."

"You're right, being a murderer isn't exactly good for public image."

"Yeah.  Also, you'd think a kid named Richie R. Ryan would grow up to be like a superhero."

"It's a real shame. I could see him saving the town in a skin tight suit."

"Or he could've been like Richie Rich."

I laughed, running my finger along the carving. "It's sad how he didn't get the chance to do any of that."

"Why do you like being in here? It's depressing."