On rainy afternoons, the playhouse became a ship. The willow branches were sails, and the drumming rain on the tin roof was the sound of cannons from enemy frigates. Carrie would hold the chipped teacup like a spyglass and shout orders to her imaginary first mate, a brave mouse named Captain Biscuit.
Years later, Carrie would drive past that old house with her own little girl asleep in the back seat. The willow tree was still there. The playhouse was gone—torn down by a new owner who wanted a garden. carries playhouse
Carrie didn’t answer. She slipped off her chair, walked across the grass, and climbed into the playhouse. She sat on the velvet cushion, hugged her knees, and did not cry. Not yet. On rainy afternoons, the playhouse became a ship
