I am 2. I am alone in our backyard, only momentarily, as my father runs up the driveway to explain to a pair of tired adolescents that we do not need our lawn mowed. I pick up a handful of dirt and carefully lay it back down, in a spot which will later be covered by a homemade home plate used in our neighbourhood baseball games. A worm pokes out from the new mound and thanks me for adding another story to his home. Two older kids are on the other side of the fence, walking towards the cemetery, taunting me in a manner I do not comprehend. Behind me is a tree I cannot wait to climb, towering over the nearby currant bushes. A rhubarb patch acts as a pillow in a bed of strawberries, but no one will think to combine their fruits to bake me a pie.
August 2 – Charli XCX gets a toddler’s secure playground