The ice plant lined outside of the concrete, out from under the shade and next to the red fence that we later painted green. The ice plant was dull for the majority of the year, dormant with its honeydew melon complexion, crisp with the crunch of little boys’ feet treading on it. My mother yelled at us for playing in the ice plant, it was a ground covering and not a playground. We were infatuated with the way the leaves broke and the moisture stored inside hit cool on your feet on the hot summer day- my brothers and I never paid attention to how hard we stepped on any of the plants in the backyard. The only time we saw the plant for what it truly was, a breathing organism, was during the spring months of Southern California March, April and May.

During those months the plant became an ecosystem and the colors of spring were fully flaunted in this stretch of the yard. The bees in their buttoned-up yellow and black coats buzz from flower to flower, busily pollenating. They were the real culprits behind the bright flush of fuchsia, the inch-wide bursts of color against the desaturated blue-green. The ice plant was alive, and when it lived, it was respected. My brothers and I treaded lightly around the area in which it rested during the night and awoke during the day. The bees were dually respected. One boy, unfortunate enough to forget the boundaries of the plant, remembered after the bees guarded their territory with fierce stings.

The month of May would roll around and the flowers would change, the heat would wilt them and by July they were a glimmer of what they once were. The bees moved on, taking their bright colors with them inside of their yellow-black coats. I would kick the ball over the plant in those late months and charge headfirst for it. Rogue bees, forgotten by their tribe, their stripes would flash the sign before giving me the telltale mark of trespassing. I knew better than that, but to go into the bush was to reclaim what was yours and no combination of colors could deny a young boy his ball.