Ivy, flowering purple in spots, climbs in, up, and around the clubhouse my older daughter and I painted so many years ago. Where there used to be curtains and a clear path. Where hours used to pass. I peer in corners of the cobwebbed interior for snakes, spiders, surprises, and, finding none, lay down the newly-varnished Free Art Friday offerings (combining street photography and flash fiction excerpts, with QR links to the full stories) to dry. I pick a fistful of daffodils on my walk back to the rest of my life, where perhaps I am now flowering again, too.