And things were not the same after that.

The tree on the lawn far to the left, behind the hedge of mom's bloody roses like full red lips.
There are the crabb apple trees as it takes a master to avoid tumbling on their red and green marble-shaped bindings.
A house in a tree where baby boys and girls eat carrots from the garden
and feign runaway peterpan novels and adventures.

The home of sunflower and geranium, made of glass and plastic casings.
The roof drips wet perspiring in the summer and its buzzing like the Amazon, just as green and lively.
A dampness deep into pores of adolescent foreheads and curling hair framing sweaty cheeks.
Transparent home housing secrets and candy,
chewy like fresh-made cherry taffy.

Sweet air sucked from healthy stretching lungs as the ground pounds its spongey surface.
The pigskin, and men always bigger than and smiling and sweating and shouting.
Loud dogs and running boys with guns finding ships to sink in sea wavings.
The women inside, smoking or talking always about money and babies and their sweating shouting men.

Underfire of foamy ammunition bombarding vision and
laughter as loud as screaming bats in grandpa's attic and imagined world's of a small and grey crawlspace in the walls.
Cracking black and white seeds from different sunflowers and salting paper cuts on thin-skinned cuticles.

Music in the house that should have been a home for life, dancing children remembering words and ignoring the weight of adult ignorance.
Forefinger and thumb, an imitation gun of sorts.  The smell of beer warm and comforting on bushes of greying moustache hairs.