grandma's house

a brief dissection of magic

My grandma’s backyard is one of every suburban child’s dreams. A small pond with minnows that, come spring, become a chorus of croaks in the night. Coin-sized frogs making the incredulous journey from their sanctuary of lily pads to the trickling creek just beyond the fence at the bottom of the property. A patio for the adults to puff their cigars and nurse a beer, ears peeled for the first cry of a child unhappy with the rules of a game. Fruit trees to nibble from, ripe or not. Winding paths through the trees, littered with forgotten tools. And a set of almond trees, its perfectly positioned branches suggesting a game of “who can climb the highest?” 

There was so much magic to my grandmother’s house, the endless jars of candies and nuts, the plants in old containers serving as makeshift pots, the Easter egg hunts and hide and seek with the cousins. The old set of dominoes and the new set of Scrabble. But the backyard, it was the peak of gathering. It was the games with cousins and the stories from adults. It was the barbecuing and the fruit picking. It was playing with the dog and family photos. It was helping with yard work and retreating back under the trees when the sun’s gentle kiss turned to a scorching smother.