Once upon a time, a lifetime ago, the little boy moved into the house not-quite-next-door. We were just five years old and rode our tricycles in circles in the street in front of his house until his parents noticed called him inside. Little boys were to play in the backyard, not outside in the street and so, in days to follow, I rode my shiny new tricycle to his house and pulled it through the wire gate into the backyard where I traded my shiny new one for his older, smaller tricycle. This is the way it was, day after day, and I didn't mind because we were friends.
In the boy's backyard was a mud hole dug with sticks and old spoons. It was cone-shaped, perfect for stirring up a batch or two of mud pies, especially after a good rain or a thorough drenching with a pail of water. The boy and girl spent a good number of sunny, summer days cooking up mud pie cookies and cakes. Years later the girl scanned the backyard with longing eyes for a sign of the old mud hole but it had vanished.
There were dandelion and buttercup bouquets picked from the grass along the fences bordering the backyard kingdom, and delivered with a smile to the boy's mummy who took them inside with great appreciation. Each new day brought new flowers to pick, fresh mud pies to mix, and more tricycle rides through the backyard.
The days of time spun on, and the little boy and the little girl grew up. They gradually went separate ways, but each one carried with them, tucked deep inside, the days of mud pies, tricycles, and dandelion bouquets.
The Barn Collective.
17 hours ago