Y Thursday, December 4, 2008
A Thief In The House Of Memory
Picture a boy's room. There is a bed shaped like an enormous red running shoe. The comforter is a golden map of the world. The curtains match the comforter but have faded. Time does that: fades things. The windows are deep, with cushions. A place to curl up with a comic book or a thought you need to think.
This boy is a builder. Models hang from invisible threads ready to dive-bomb his dreams. A Lego skyscraper sits on a low table. Action figures patrol a nearby shelf : Transformers in various states of transformation.
He is a dreamer. Above the bed is a framed picture of a house the boy drew when he was not even nine. A dream house. There is a book open on the bedside table. He might have just stepped out to get a glass of water.
Where is he? What's keeping him?
The curtains flutter. It's an April night. One window is open just a crack.
Listen. Someone is outside, someone walking too close to the shrubbery, checking a window latch, checking a door handle. There is silence again and then, suddenly, the splintering of wood. The sound is muffled- over in a second. Above the bed a Super Star Destroyer clicks against the Millennium Falcon.
Reach up and still the starships. Look at your fingers. They are black with dust. Run your finger over the jacket of the book. See the picture brighten under your touch? The boy hasn't slept in this room for four years.
if you want to read on, ask me to lend you the book
youknowyouloveme
you know you love me
xoxo
1:19 AM
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