By Louisa Strong ’26

We were crouched in the grass, kept neatly trimmed by her mother, rotting twigs and strange flowers littering our feet. Lilies, ferns, and unruly shrubs threatened the border of this upkept backyard, in constant rebellion to my aunt’s pruning. Our laughter, reaching to the blue above, tangled with that of the gulls on their way to the nearby sea. With the sun on our backs and the afternoon ahead of us, Audrey and I prepared to build. It’s been a while, but I still know the ritual well. The perfect fairy house is constructed by two essentials: the right materials and the right mindset, the right mindset being believing in the existence of fairies. I never struggled with the first part, but since I had stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny at five, at eight, fairies didn’t seem very realistic to me either. But if Audrey believed in them, that was enough to at least make me play along.

My cousin and I would run too fast and too far down the road in search of the ideal fairy house materials. So determined in our adventure, we hardly noticed the pavement callusing our feet or the inevitable thorns tearing at our legs while we searched for the most fantastical ornaments nature could provide. Audrey and I spent many days like this and by the end of these summers, I wore every scratch and bruise as a trophy of the summer now gone. But right now it was still summer and there was still a fairy house waiting to be made. 

As we began to construct, the disproportions of the house started worrying me. If Audrey saw how absurd it was that the chairs were twice as big as their acorn table, would she then see the absurdity of the whole bit? I was sure that if Audrey realized that fairies couldn’t exist, our quiet sanctuary of flowers and forest would be gone. After a minute, I asked her if she was sure that all of the makeshift furniture would work for the fairies, and she assured me that because they were magical, all of the furniture would be just fine. Audrey and I continued on until we could barely see our creation by the dimming skylight. She told me that the fairies were going to love their new home and that we’d better get inside so they could move in in peace. 

Her imagination far outstretched my own; while I wished that there was magic in the world, Audrey already believed it was there. Building fairy houses on those hot summer days, salty breeze knotting our hair and strawberry lemonade on our tongues, I never once saw a fairy but I shared in Audrey’s belief of magic. Because there, in those moments, I could feel it. I held on tight to Audrey’s imagination, hoping that if I pretended enough, we would stay children forever. 

Summers passed quickly and soon Audrey and I were eleven and twelve. The summer’s dull fog clung to our clothes and gathered on our skin. Rain clouds lingered in the corners of the sky. Having exhausted water balloons and spilling secrets, we sat on her front steps throwing pebbles on to her driveway. With each throw, the contrast from this summer to the ones still sharp in my memory seemed to grow. The past summers spent unafraid and imperfect had been weighing on me, taunting me with the fact that I could not go back. It was then that Audrey suggested we build a fairy house. All of my worrying had been for nothing; summer was still here and Audrey still saw the magic in it. 

We set out in our familiar routine, looking for the best flowers and most creative decor for the fairies. It was just like it had always been or at least I tried to make myself think that. In truth, it didn’t feel like magic. It felt like forcing a sequel to something that could have wrapped up beautifully a long time ago. This feeling that fairy houses seemed so ingenuine now forced me into a confession. 

“You know I never believed in fairies, right?” I asked her. “I just pretended for your sake”. For a moment I didn’t know what she was thinking. Our sweet summer seemed to rot in front of my eyes. Then she laughed.

“That’s funny,” she said, “because I was always pretending for your sake”. With that, we left our flowers and twigs scattered on the tar and returned home.

And, somehow, it was still summer.