Backyard Cities

I’m five-years-old and it’s the nineties— I’ve been shoved through the sliding glass doors leading to the backyard again. The faded outdoor thermometer says it’s ninety degrees. I won’t have to go back inside for water because I know how to turn the handle for the hose. If I need to escape the heat and sun, I can sit in the shade under the eaves of the house. My bare feet are tough as leather from hot asphalt. I know the cure to a bee sting is mushed, watery aspirin.

The dark blue siding on the house is cracked where the sprinkler has sprayed water again and again. In the corner of the yard is what used to be a little charming spot for a bush, or a few flowers. I have turned it into a mud pit where shovels, buckets and Tonka Trunks live.

I love it when the lawn is freshly cut— the earthy, wet smell of it. There’s a yellow patch in the grass. I overhear the landlord talking about it to my mom, they’re trying to figure out why the grass keeps dying there. I think about that dead patch often, as if I might solve the mystery myself one day.

I lay on my stomach to study the tops of green grass that remind me of a vast city with tall skyscrapers and shadowy dirt roads. Its civilians include ants, rollie pollies, and centipedes. I find an earwig under the pink towel I left in the yard yesterday. I cover my ears because the boy down the street told me earwigs eat brains.

Years later, I have my own five-year-old and the rules of the backyard have changed. I’m always with her, she’s lathered in sunscreen, and wearing sandals. She doesn’t know that kids used to drink from the hose because I grab us water bottles. Although, I’m sure to impress the sacred secrets of The Backyard: We explore the expanse of a green city and its citizens, making sure to always protect our ears against brain-eating bugs.