Fire Ants

Grandad helped me build the treehouse.

“Ignore the fire ants,” he said. “Some things you just have to accept. We’ll face it east, my boy. When you’re older, you’ll sleep here; watch sunrise with your arm around your girl. Like I did,” he said, rubbing the wood beside him. The empty space.

We found our bearings with a compass and a squint—skin prickling with ants, anticipation. We worked all day.

The next morning, I woke early, slithered the curtains apart to check our build.

Grandad was in the treehouse, patting the space beside him, eyes fixed upon the sky.