Become a Child The chains are covered with rust and when you swing they creak, but less than 10 years ago the swings were freshly painted and the chains a shiny silver.  I spent a great deal of my childhood in and on my tree house. My tree house consisted of two swings (one shorter than the other), a horse swing, a set of rings, a sand box, and a fort that was built above all of these things.  My brothers also grew up here.  I used to spend my summers in the fort pretending that it was my very own house. When I was finished pretending, I’d spend hours swinging—pumping my short legs until they touched the clouds.  I felt one with the sky.   As I grew older, I stopped spending time in my tree house, claiming that big girls don’t pretend and swing.  It was only a couple summers ago that I began returning to my childhood haven.  The rope to my fort was now easier to climb, as my legs were more sturdy at the age of 14 than they had been at the age of 8.  The place seemed smaller—but not too small. I think back to two summers ago when I spent the night there—it was like having the house to ourselves.  I’ve found that childhood places are just as special as a young adult.  You never grow out of things . . .