I have been thinking a lot about the nature of homes. What makes a place ours. The last step you skip, the crack in the wall. The shadows you all ignore. The place you knocked with your elbow and almost broke your bone. Where he first got stitches. Small items that have no owner but instead appear out of the ether and remain for years. The knife that cuts better than the rest. Is home the house or the one place you can read without anyone bothering you. When we make people our homes do we just move in our memories. Learn to skip over talking about her, he doesn’t like it. The place you knocked heads. Words you should have left unsaid. Words that you repeated just for the delight of saying them. Maybe there’s a reason it’s hard to move out from people. Maybe once you get used to how the ceiling groans when it settles or how one of the door hinges is loose it just … gets harder to picture anywhere else. Even if the windows leak you know what you’re dealing with. Everyone else is new and scary. At least there’s a roof. Even if it’s sometimes awful. You see the good stuff when you close your eyes. And hindsight always lies.
Do we know how old Finn was when he and Jake moved into the treehouse? Or was there a significant period that marked that memorable moment? I feel like there is, but I'm drawing a blank.