« First Cinquain Ever | Main | Saying this out loud. »
A Basketful of Potatoes
By Billy | December 10, 2009
The place was beautiful. We could hardly, for the life of us, understand why. Each clue pointed to a deeper confusion; each confusion pointed to reasons for us to keep exploring.
Were we the only ones to know of this place?
Were we the only ones to care?
The house had easily ignorable signs around it. Perhaps someone hoped they would work. Warning, biohazard. Perhaps this was a battlefield. Whatever the case was, we didn’t heed the warnings, we indulged in the dangers.
I started visiting The House on Sand Street when I was twenty one years young. It was a place of safety, of refuge, and of secrecy. Every ounce of matter in the place screamed, “secret;” whispered, “secret.”
Some nights I’d go out wandering and find myself there, not quite sure of the path I took to get there. Sometimes I’d wake up there, sure I had gone to sleep in my bed. When I got lost, Sand Street seemed my light house, helping me triangulate. The House on Sand Street became a regular event, then a weekly trip, eventually a daily pilgrimage.
Cleo and I were the first to discover it, we were certain. Nobody has been here since forever, we said to ourselves and each other. We guarded it jealously; shared it with the little birds, the big cats, and the weepy trees. They alone knew our secret. Anyone else would know where we were going, but not where that was.
I don’t know how often Cleo came back (I bet she went all the time without me), and though I don’t care now, I certainly did back then. I became suspect of her and why she’d tell me things like, “I don’t have time to visit Sand Street this week,” when I know she was going there all the time.
I’ll admit, I often hid and waited, seeing if she’d come in the night or early morning and explore or play without me. Only cats, only birds, only tress. The toys remained unplayed with, it seemed. I knew they had a player, though. Everything always changed there.
Everything was always different.
Sometimes I’d end up there and something would be moving still. Someone had just been here. Random wind chimes still swinging on the stillest of days. Tree houses in mid construction would fall to the ground, a pile of wood. Laundry… half a load of laundry hung on the lines!
Sometimes I finished the job, sometimes I took them apart. Sometimes I created, sometimes I destroyed. Often I slept there. It was exhausting being there, it was amazing sleeping there.
Cleo and I would go occasionally. Usually only when we welcomed big cats or weepy trees into our lives. Sometimes we went for them, sometimes we went for us. I don’t recall ever going for her, towards the end.
Towards the very end, I only went for myself. I think.
I wandered a lot, I longed for something solid. The House on Sand Street was a dream for so long. I don’t know why I ran so hard.
Last night I dreamt I was the turned over birdbath. Today I dreamt I was standing next to the birdbath.
Topics: Works of Fiction | Comments Off on A Basketful of Potatoes
Comments are closed.