The Greenhouse

In My Mind's Eye


My grandfather’s small frame house backed up to the railroad tracks. A stone’s throw away, up a high embankment, freight trains sparked and rumbled past the back of his house at all hours of the day and night. The front of the house faced a neglected city park, cropped green sometimes, but in the summer, burnt crunchy by the Texas sun and filled with spiny mesquite climbing trees, scrubby bushes and dilapidated playground equipment. A wood post and wire fence separated the house from the park. Not that you could tell what the fence was made of, it was submerged in mounds of yellow honeysuckle; just as the tin storage sheds to the right of the house were buried in a verdant tangle of bugle vines, exploding with bright orange, trumpet-shaped blooms.  The house was framed on the left by mulberry trees that dropped messy black and red fruit in the summer; berries so tart and sweet that…

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