The Tree house.

I sat sticking to the scorching black linoleum covering the oak stairs to my great-aunt's back porch. The sweat poured down me like a thin steam following my spine to the small of my back. Despite the sweltering heat, and air so thick you could cut through it with a knife, my dad and uncle labored on to build me the most beautiful tree house I have ever seen. Even though it was nearing twilight the heavy July air still laid upon the three of us like a wool blanket. They had just let me help hammer the last nail in place before my mom called out to us that dinner was ready.
My tree house, m…