Ashleaves

Year 12 creative writing activity

I do not remember the address, I just know there is a sign at the start of your driveway that reads ‘Ashleaves’. It has become my nickname for you, but you don’t know that.

You also don’t know how warm it felt there. Every moment I spent there was surrounded by nature’s bold green statements. A declaration of peace, a grace period.

I think of a tree that may not even be there anymore. It’s a tree with spilling leaves, flowing like a waterfall, and we climbed into the room it had hidden beneath the natural curtains. Perhaps I’m making it up though, the memory isn’t as solid as the others.
These other memories are of you, Ashleaves, and the way you tried to make me ride your horse even though you knew I just wanted to play the XBox. You always knew. I remember you telling me it was fine to go outside without my shoes on, I was scared of the spikes that stuck up out of the grass, like the thorns at the bottom of Rapunzel’s tower, reminding me of the danger that always remains at the bottom of the fall. You told me that nature didn’t bite, that the ground was soft and the thorns didn’t hurt. I listened and tried not to look down.
Except I was right this time.
It felt like every time I tried to blend with the bush the way you did, it made me fall. It was more than once we sat together with thorns in my foot.

Regardless, I like to travel back to this place just to feel warm. I’m met with recurring visions of our imaginations. The way we pretended we could fly. The way we pretended the birds were our friends.
The way I still like to pretend now that you think of me at all.

I use this place as a warm setting for my daydreams. I think of a soft patch of grass that I can lie upon, with the sun gazing upon my figure. I think of your bedroom and how much it must have changed by now. No play horses, or a bunk bed. I think of myself lying upon your carpet in a ray of sunshine while the rest of your room sinks into shadow.
When we stopped talking, my world sank into shadow.

I do not remember your address, if it still is, so I call this place of warmth ‘Ashleaves’. Because as I wade through harsh cold realities, feeling cold snaps and slaps across my face, I use your house and all nature’s blessings that surround it as a nickname for the warmth I felt. The warmth I miss so dearly.
I call you Ashleaves. For you were the warmth, the comfort, the friend, and the daydream.

But you don’t know any of that.