The willow leaves rustled. An owl called somewhere in the distance.
So she did. She swept out the dirt and dead leaves. She pulled away the old burlap sacks and found a chipped teacup with a rose painted on it. She lined the windowsill with smooth white stones she’d collected from the creek. Her mother gave her a worn velvet cushion, and Carrie set it in the corner like a throne.
Carrie was seven years old, and she had a secret. The secret lived at the bottom of her backyard, beneath the sprawling arms of an old willow tree. It was her playhouse. carries playhouse
Carrie felt the words land in her chest like cold stones. “What about my playhouse?”
As the car pulled out of the driveway, Carrie looked back. The willow tree waved in the wind. Through the dusty rear window, she could just see the little crooked door. The willow leaves rustled
For the next three weeks, she visited the playhouse every single day. She brought Captain Biscuit (who was, in reality, a pebble she’d named) and Mr. Puddles. She traced the crack in the window with her finger. She smelled the old wood and the dry grass and the dust motes dancing in the golden light. She tried to memorize everything.
On rainy afternoons, the playhouse became a ship. The willow branches were sails, and the drumming rain on the tin roof was the sound of cannons from enemy frigates. Carrie would hold the chipped teacup like a spyglass and shout orders to her imaginary first mate, a brave mouse named Captain Biscuit. She swept out the dirt and dead leaves
Subject: “Carries Playhouse”
In the morning, the movers came. They packed boxes and rolled up rugs. Carrie’s father hooked the trailer to the truck. No one said much about the playhouse. It was just an old shed, after all.