At six I hold a whole house in the palm of my hand from under a tree the other side of the road.
I'm spying. Violets everywhere holding them, too, my palm moist and dirty.
I make believe a house: 3 stories, I imagine a basement like mine filled with old umbrellas motors from four cars a mad aunt living under the stairs eating orange seeds, peeling them first, offering them to me through bars in the bottom windows and I drop my violets in my hurry to accept. A man, Mr. Collins, comes out of the house and waves to me and she's gone -- the mad aunt.
I wave back at Mr. Collins, furious even though he saved me once at the side of the road when I was screaming for bandaids. He gets in the car and I get on all fours, conjure her... I rip apart petals to find her hidden, there, in the middle of the violet house. I'm a wild thing on all fours, a tiger, a horse, mad, just like her.