It’s an old white house, with boards on the windows.
This cannot be, you think, but there it is, even to
the secret way inside, by the back stairs.
Hello, you say, is anybody here? hoping someone answers,
but already knowing there’s only you, in that long hall with its invitation of doors.
You walk slowly, pushing through the slow breathing silence,
until you stand before the last door.
You press against it & it sticks & for an instant you
think Oh well, I tried & then suddenly, it opens & there’s
a familiar smell, maybe lavender, or old newspaper. There’s
a photograph with faded ink that says With love always,
exactly like every other time you dreamed this all the days of your life.
I can’t say for sure what it’ll be. It’s different for everyone.
But, in an instant, who you were burns to ash & all
that remains is an unbound pillar of flame.
Later, you slowly remember there are things called words,
though they never mean what they did before you open that door
& return as a wild thing barely contained by your skin.
- storypeople -