I’m deeply dreaming about my brick house, it’s mortar and mortals, and I’ve dug up the floor, through layers of wood and laminate, carpets and come upon a door. Battered, sealed with boards against the opening we tear through it, he and I, this new love, our hands firm and strong against the pine and rusted nails until we dislodge the blockage and walk within.
A new basement to an old place, full with, of all things, lingerie and washing machines, the kind you find in dingy laundromats, shit brown and begging for quarters. We wander through, the walls shabby and unfinished, bare wood, the floors gleaming so i can nearly see myself, the light bright yet unkind.
I hold him near as I turn in amazement at the crannies I have never seen, the newness that envelops me in a haze of brilliant light, the kind which wakes you early on a September morning, clean.
There’s something to be said to feeling like your life is a new book you just opened. Or rather, feeling like your life is an old book you get to start all over with.
Quiet. In some places, you can try and imagine what it must have been like so many years ago, before all the this.
The sky gets so big you feel like it might just swallow you up, the air carries cedar, pine, birch to you, and if you’re lucky, the geese take a chorus up before you as your muscles relax into movements oddly familiar. The silence teems and try as you might, you wonder when the last time it was that you felt this completely sure of yourself, and your place within everything.
A new door. A highway to a new world, one which stood right next to the old one, scratching it’s head and asking, puzzled, what you were waiting for.
What are you waiting for?