“You ever think about how nothing stays put?” I ask offhandedly, breaking up a clump of earth. “You clear something back, and it just… comes back.”
Grandpa doesn’t look up. “Most things do.”
“Seems pointless.”
“Only if you think the goal is to make it stop growing,” he says gently. “Some things just need managing, not erasing.”
I glance toward the far corner of the yard, where the old treehouse still stands, built into the fork of the big oak. The stairs are mostly intact, save for the one near the bottom that always gave way under muddy sneakers. The wood is graying now, paint long faded, but the bones hold. They always have.
Ivy winds its way up the supports, clinging tighter than I remember. It’s almost halfway to the roof now. I used to rip it back every spring because I hated how it made the whole thing look forgotten.
I frown. “That stuff’s worse than last time.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I used to keep it trimmed back.”
“You did,” Harry agrees.
“But you stopped letting me.”
He finally looks at me then, eyes kind as he nods. “I did.”
“Why?”
He turns back to the bed, brushing dirt from his fingers. “Delly loved that ivy.”
I still at my grandpa’s nickname for my grandmother. She’s been gone five years now.
“Said it looked like something out of a fairytale,” he continues. “And she said if something wanted to grow that badly, maybe it deserved the space.”
I swallow. “It’ll take over the whole thing eventually.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I think it might be reinforcing it.”
I stare at the treehouse, memories rising in fragments of when I helped Grandpa build it all those years ago. Bare feet on warm wood. Adele’s voice calling me in for lunch, and Harry fixing the ladder for the third time in one summer.
“She would’ve loved how it’s taken over,” Harry says, following my gaze.
“I should’ve let it be,” I concede. “Didn’t like anything that reminded me of being a kid.”
He smiles, just a little. “You get sentimental with age, it’s unavoidable.”
We work in silence for a while.
It’s never small talk with Grandpa. He doesn’t ask how I’ve been or if I’m hungry. He knows. Of course I’m hungry. Of course I’ve been stubborn. Of course I’ve been avoiding this place again, like if I stay away long enough, the ghosts might forget how to find me.
The winter sun isn’t strong, but it filters through the high trees overhead.
“I saw that gala announcement,” Grandpa says eventually. “Something about a fundraiser for a sick kid?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, pressing my thumb into the dirt. “Osteosarcoma… Cancer. He’s eight.”
Harry curses softly under his breath. He pulls another weed from the roots, shakes off the soil, and tosses it behind him.
“Didn’t peg you for the black-tie charity circuit, though.”
“Neither did I.”
