I walk the makeshift path between our two houses. Scorching pavement, the sting is nice. Against my soles, where skin is tough, from barefoot summers growing up. Dodging corpses of fallen crab apples, from the neighbour’s tree. Between our half-hearted fences, it arches watchfully. Their backyard is overgrown, forgotten. The man who lived there, now has passed, and his kids don’t visit often. I still worry he’ll catch me, stealing apples from his tree. 

I hop, on the balls of my feet— the gravel poking, sorta tickles— in some attempt to keep them clean.

The lonely swing, really— a lazy, glorified, piece of wood. It hangs limp, with rope on either side, holding on, like tired, loyal, suspenders. Dad’s garden lines the rusty fence, it meets the archway, that has fully regrown, despite being torn down years ago. I remember the day so clearly. I was so sad. Over a shrub! But it was our’s, our beautiful shrub. It’s best I moved, I wouldn’t have had the patience to wait for it to grow. This is much better, returning to it, in all its restored glory; its naked skeleton, a foggy memory— perhaps… it was just a dream. A timed return like a mindful edit… Sneaky child, who covers their eyes, protects the heart, invites a lie… Like a crab apple, who’s flesh looks so sweet, its body petite, but is sour to taste, they will all go to waste.

And of course the baby blue bungalow, with cream coloured trim. Like clouds peppered against, the most gentle of skies. Windows wide open, to cool the house in July. The sun casting shadows, along its panelled side— like a lover’s name tattooed in cursive, on a ribcage.

Head back, the tree above me, an aching time capsule. Imagine if it had eyes. All the scenes its watched unfold, peoples’ entries and demise. I love this tree. Oh I adore this tree! Just like the shrub. I will cry the day it comes crashing down. Or is chopped into fire wood, when the land becomes infertile, at some indefinite, approaching, date. 

Trees don’t grow like this in the suburbs— or so I’ve been told. It takes years to grow trees like these. Lifetimes. It takes patience, and care. Preserving what is good, and holy, despite age.

I could lay here forever. My skin has never felt warmer. The strawberries aren’t far. I eat them as I pick them, how spoiled of me. A fistful of basil and mint, the very first sugar pea. I turn the hose on and rinse my feet, I surely failed to keep clean. Turn my head upside down. Now soaking strands of hair, drip down my back, ah, relief. I press wet hands to berry cheeks— lipstick kisses from the heat. And drink straight from the hose, like a can’t be bothered kid, who doesn’t notice the very bruises, on their own two stubby knees. 

So rarely, in my body, do I feel quite at peace. But in this moment I do. I have nowhere to be.