The House of Magic

The House of Magic

I settle myself down next to with Anita, Pedro’s youngest sister. Absentmindedly, she sits there. Playing with the clay we were sculpting and letting out small, girlish giggles at random jokes made only for her ears. Her flowing, coral dress is becoming smudged and splattered with bits of clay she has dropped on herself. I study Anita for a while longer, before letting my line of vision wander. I breathe deeply and begin to soak in the magic of Pedro’s house.

            My eyes travel across the garden. In front of the cherry red door, lounging on a cushioned chair is my mother. Absorbed in a good book and completely oblivious to what is around her. A small crease appears in her brow as she feverishly flips the pages, frustrated at how the chapter ends right before the most exiting part. From the door enters Pedro. He limps and stumbles down the French staircase, lazy and fresh from the sleep that is still visibly clouding his eyes. Across from them is the large, majestic pine tree, standing alone and proud. Its dark green leaves cast a thick shadow over the small shrubs and plants that surround it. Hanging from its sturdy branches is a lone tire swing. It sways gently in the cool summer breeze. Old and torn, but happy to have been well used and loved. It gives me a lopsided smile from its strained rope. It’s body stained and frayed at the edges. A little to the left, my brother  and Tito are playing soccer on the yellowing grass. They were kicking the ball as if it were a bomb. Hitting it with so much urgency and strength that it soared away from them, while at the same time aiming it with complete precision so as to avoid it from setting off. Only for it to be kicked right back to them. I watch their seemingly never-ending loop of kicks, wondering how they can ever find it fun. Then, Tito loses his focus. The soccer ball rockets towards my leg. Aiming to snap it in half. But the grass soothes its nerves and slows it down until it reaches my leg with a gentle pat. Only slightly disappointed that it failed in its mission. I smile and gently pick up the ball and throw it back to the grateful boys, then lean back and spread myself out. Staring up at the sapphire sky.

            Beneath my body I can feel the heat of the grass on my back contradicting with the smooth, cool brick that my legs are resting upon. The rough, dry grass yells at me for laying on it and pathetically scratches against my skin, weak and struggling under the heat of the sun. I continue to mold the taupe clay. Wanting to create a bowl, but knowing that in the end it would turn out a mere blob. The clay squishes underneath the pressure of my fingers. Becoming smoother and firmer the more I shape it. I roll to my side and reach my hand into the awaiting tub of water in order to re-moisten the clay. The water is lukewarm and sends a tingle of shock through my fingers. I let my hand sit in the tub for a while. Enjoying the sensation of the water beneath my fingertips before slowly pulling my hand away and back onto the clay. As I continue to mash the clay, the early morning sun beats down on me like a drum. Draining my energy. I stop sculpting and lay the clay beside me on the brick floor. I then lean back again, basking in the warmth of the sun’s rays and the cooling sensation of the soft, summer breeze. The breeze carries a delicate, violet flower that tickles my nose for a second before floating off into the distance as I close my eyes.

            The repetitive humming of crickets immediately fills my ears. So many different tones, but they come together like they are being conducted. The breeze flows through the trees. Causing the leaves to whistle and blow until a soft thump can be heard from a fallen pinecone. I can tell my mom is still reading. The pages of her book make slight, tearing sounds as she rips two apart that have become bound together due to the heat. Pedro’s mom begins to hum from the kitchen. A soft, happy tune that pours into my soul and makes me shiver in delight. Pedro’s mom is like a locomotive in the mornings. Speeding down the rails that wrap around the small kitchen in a continuous order, so as to prepare a breakfast for ten. Just on cue, I hear the slow trickle of her freshly squeezed juice being poured into yet another glass. Then, the air above me erupts with music as birds begin to sing in tune with the crickets. Providing a bright soprano to the cricket’s booming alto. The clops and clicks of horses fills the small dusty road beside the house as the man from the market leads them back to the stables after a long day of carrying supplies. The horse’s steady footsteps meld and weave into the music. Morphing into a steady drumbeat that holds the melody together like glue. The soft giggles and voices of the people around me join in, and suddenly the whole world is gushing with a beautiful symphony that streams everywhere and embraces me in its calming aura.

            I notice a tentative poke at my ribs as I slowly crack open my eyelids. Anita is staring down at me, a toothy smile plastered on her four-year-old face, and blinks slowly.

“Silly Julia, you fell asleep no? Anyway, mama made breakfast. Come, come!”

I smile gently at her before jerking my body up and racing towards the scent of fresh bread emerging from the table. A small cricket is perched on the edge of my chair. It looks at me questioningly and I pause. Then, without another thought, I lift up the cricket and place it gently in the grass. I smile as I watch it hop away. Ready to create a new composition. Yes, Pedro’s house really is magical.