By Emma Harvey
It is always warm. Perhaps this is due to the open windows, the constantly swinging door, or the structure’s gentle placement along the street.
The house crouches behind a row of tall pines. Their branches are scarred from the light-up sneakers and sweaty palms that have climbed into their embrace. They stand like ballerinas with arms that hang in gentle swoops. These dancers have sheltered several children over the years, hiding them under the soft umbrella of their grassy tutus and letting them rest upon the soft bed of fallen needles.
With plants creeping their viridescent fingers up the paneling, the house has become a part of nature itself. Overgrown grass, driftwood birdhouses, and untamed foliage provide a soft paneling at the home’s base. An old man, war-weathered and devoted, used to force blades through the bushes and across the grass to keep nature at bay. Despite his struggling ability to walk, he persisted. Akin to the machete he slashed across the Vietnamese jungles, he persisted.
A break in the tree line allows for a path of glazed black pebbles to crawl near and collapse beside the house. On the driveway, a reel of memories lies—a towheaded boy hurling a blazing sparkler over the fence, a simple couple naming the birds that landed on their porch, and children watching the hose rain transparent pearls onto the cracked tar. It becomes a barbecue in the months of the year when the sun blazes without restraint, when the children used to leap like tap dancers as the asphalt teased their bare toes with burns. Yet in the misty hours of the morning, the breeze whistles serenely by, barely glazing over the surface.
Resting atop the charred path, the garage stands at attention. A proud soldier, he has seen his way through three generations of active duty but now lies on reserve. Inside, he bears his awards, badges, and stripes without any space for more. Spades, carnival games, and Christmas lights decorate the walls. The echo of miniature buckled boots still dance inside the bed of the truck which used to reside there, and the minivan that would always fetch rapture upon arrival has also been transformed into a mere phantom.
A long deteriorating trail of paved grey stones leads to a fairy garden that is guarded by firm walls. Underneath the ever-shining sun, shadows of laughter that span thirty years still ring. The garden is adorned with overgrown grass, a rusty swing set, and a decaying ring of stones that betrays the evidence of the swimming pool that was once at the garden’s core. The swimming pool has long since been filled in with dirt and roots. Now, it allows room for nature to swim and splash there and has been transformed into a monument for the blossoms its creation once uprooted. Flowers sprout up from the area like the hands of the undead, grasping for the sunlight that shines solely upon them. Near it, there sits a splintering wooden arch that has for years been permitted to grow decrepit under the strain of the leaf-smothered life it carries.
This area is highlighted by a ring of pine trees clasping hands. They stand high as skyscrapers, transforming the fairy garden into a clearing in the darkest wood. They stand firm and proud, reaching up to God in desperate expansion. Their bowed arms and fingers fall toward the earth even as their heads reach for the clouds.
On their bark, proof of play is apparent. Golden crispy rope hangs from their branches like earrings, swinging in a way that no longer carries imagination or song. But once upon a time, small vessels of laughter swung from these, twirling around their trunks fearlessly. Laughter is still to return, yet the fraying ropes snap, and the stones crumble.
Years have passed since the adventurous, young children have reached up into the sloping arms and fingers of the pines. They made themselves into squirrels as they too sought a higher view of above. For three decades, thin fingers and raw palms scraped the skyscrapers’ skin and made themselves at home holding hands with the giants.
Cowering behind the other side of the dwelling, the backyard stretches between the house and the fence. One long, thin finger bridges the gap between the backyard and the front. The suburban alley kept the children safe in her arms. As they boldly crept in, she guided them through a jungle path, a secret passage, or a hiding place from imagined villains. She safely delivered them back to the row of dancers who hid the house. Guards in their own right, the pines stood at attention to protect them. They still guard the home.
They guard the soldiering garage, the fairy garden, and the rotted birdwatcher’s porch.
They guarded the couple. They guarded the children.
Now the guards stand alone.
The Judson Mosaic 