Fairies that Don't Fit

A big shady blue gum tree stands outside our farmhouse, right next to the barn. As seeds fall from it and dry on the ground, parts of them that look like perfect little rondavel roofs get scattered among the leaves. I love to collect them and stack them together, creating lopsided towers – miniature skyscrapers on the Eastern Cape dirt.

For hours and days over the holiday, I sit under the blue gum, painstakingly clearing the ground of leaves and branches. I find the most perfectly-diametered stalks of dried grass from the hay-bales in the barn and place them firmly in a dampened foundation. Then my little roofs go on top. I handle them carefully, but often the houses didn’t last very long at all – a strong wind or rainfall could result in my town’s destruction. Despite these natural disasters, I persevere, rebuilding what was destroyed and repairing what is damaged.

Dominique, realising that her boredom arose out of the disappearance of my constant nagging, comes to investigate. “What are you doing, Se?”, she asks inquisitively. “Building houses for the fairies’. “That’s silly’, she says, and wanders off, back to the house. I watched her go, smugly content with the gravity of my task.

She’s back half an hour later. ‘So, Se, how big are fairies again?’ I show her using my muddy thumb and index finger – “that’s stupid, Dom, they’re about this big. And really pretty”. She nods thoughtfully and walks off purposefully. I continue with my little city, absorbed. Later, I get hungry, and know that Mom will call us for supper soon. I’m curious about what Dominique is getting up to, so I go and investigate.

I find her next to the pile of bricks, constructing little houses, with a plank on top of the bricks acting as a roof. “What are you making, Dom?”, I ask, in awe, as ever, of my older sibling. “Other houses for the fairies”. “But that’s what my houses are for”, I say, anxiously pointing in the direction of my miniature city of weightless houses that suddenly seem very fragile. “Se”, Dominique says impatiently, scrunching her nose like she always does when she’s irritated with me, “obviously the fairies won’t fit in your houses – they’re much too small”. She rolls her eyes. Mine fill with tears.

Mom is calling, and we amble toward the red-roofed farmhouse. As I take my gumboots off on the porch I glance up at the towering wooden door frame. My hands and knees are muddy and my head is full of fairies that won’t fit.