There is a cute old woman on my street. When my feet were still black from the street and my bike, I would play at her house. She made me cookies and let me swing on her swing connected to a big tree that turned the color of blood in the fall. But the best of all was her backyard. Little fairy gardens were surrounded by pink roses and overgrown leaves. A place where imaginations ran wild. A call from my mom broke the illusion. I didn’t know it then, but I would never return to the Fairy Lady’s house ever again.