crazy like spring (yellow)

spring makes me think of daffodils, tree houses and crazy people.

on the corner of my parents yard, where the gravel road turns to make its loop back toward the grave yard, there sat a pile of large random stones. one was a concrete ball with about 3 inches of rebar sticking out of it that i imagine adorned a wall at some point. green moss filled in the spaces on its rough skin; rust giving character as it spread into the stone from the base of the rebar.

it was beside this pile of stone that we built our tree house.

our dad did most of the work, building the deck, attaching the walls, even shingling the roof. but we got to paint it, using cans of left over paint from the corner of the garage and old soft bristle paint brushes. white was what we had most of and so white became our tree house, slowly between stoppages to rinse paint out of our eyes, from our haphazard painting.

as we painted, my sister sat on the stones, playing dolls in the dirt.

my heart, backfiring like a rusty muffler, sent goose flesh in waves to the shores of my arms, when i heard her scream. eyes rolling back into her head, spittle stretching in rivulets from her mouth, my sister flailed around the yard...screaming...hitting herself...throwing herself on the ground. it was the most peculiar thing we had ever seen, of course this was before we saw brad pitt in 12 monkeys.

gesticulating like a puppet whose stings had become tangled, she pirouetted in the green grass.

grabbing her, my parents whisked her into the house, away from prying eyes. we heard their taught voices through the wood of the bathroom door, then water gushing into the tub drowned out her keening. paint dried tight on our fingertips, as we sat in the hall, our backs pressed against the wall, waiting.

the door opened, eyes swollen, her body still shaking, wrapped in a green towel, my sister made her way to the couch, leaving hundreds of twitching ants drifting toward the metal drain.

the tree house is long gone now, the stones haunt some rubbish pile, and in their place grow yellow daffodils. the warmth of my coffee cup leaks into my fingers as i watch spring unfold, knowing the ants find each of us at times and at first glance we may seem crazy, until someone stops to care.


this is a Theme Thursday post and a much belated Magpie.