My Yellow Fury: Part I
Part I: Return to Home
I made sure to watch the bulldozers. I had seen their shovels push the porch pillars down like Romans butting their shields into a frontline of barbarian spears. The rotting wood of the deck where I had once chipped my tooth churned into instant splinters in front of the yellow machines. My father’s smoke shack that I remembered glowing with the flame of one cigar was toppled in an instant. Even the ancient oak tree, where my mother had decided to hang, fell to the ground uprooting its memories. I watched the house collapse in less time than it took for my Father to bleed out over the cold cement floor in the basement.
I had seen its walls fall right in front of me, yet right in front of me is where the house still stood. The running ivy framed the house into a face that stared at me, vacant but pensive. Its darkened windowpane eyes watched me in silence. The chipped, yellowed skin of the walls shuddered with a concealed pleasure at my approach. I could hear the weathervane’s squeaking laugh as the wind pointed its arrow at me. Even when I had watched the house collapse and rot I had known that its power would always lie in outer realms.
Without words, it drew me in. The lonely shrew had grown angry in its patience and now lit a small light inside my childhood room. It beckoned me in but delighted as the gate slammed before me. For a moment I hesitated but then remembered my rebellious days. I caught hold on that ancient oak that had led me over the wall after midnight drinking as a young man. Within its wilted bark, it carried be over the black iron gate and perched me high above the yellowed grass of the front yard.
Within the tree, I paused for a moment, tuning my ears to a new sound that had a churning quality like someone stirring a large stew. After glaring through the dark windows of the house, I saw that the sound came from just below me. At the bottom of the oak’s trunk, I saw the familiar black fur of a once dear friend. He had hidden with me during drunken fights and barked out as scotch tumblers smashed into the walls. Below the oak tree is where I had once buried Cosmo as a small boy. It was the same place where I saw him now, chewing on a girl’s face.
I made sure to watch the bulldozers. I had seen their shovels push the porch pillars down like Romans butting their shields into a frontline of barbarian spears. The rotting wood of the deck where I had once chipped my tooth churned into instant splinters in front of the yellow machines. My father’s smoke shack that I remembered glowing with the flame of one cigar was toppled in an instant. Even the ancient oak tree, where my mother had decided to hang, fell to the ground uprooting its memories. I watched the house collapse in less time than it took for my Father to bleed out over the cold cement floor in the basement.
I had seen its walls fall right in front of me, yet right in front of me is where the house still stood. The running ivy framed the house into a face that stared at me, vacant but pensive. Its darkened windowpane eyes watched me in silence. The chipped, yellowed skin of the walls shuddered with a concealed pleasure at my approach. I could hear the weathervane’s squeaking laugh as the wind pointed its arrow at me. Even when I had watched the house collapse and rot I had known that its power would always lie in outer realms.
Without words, it drew me in. The lonely shrew had grown angry in its patience and now lit a small light inside my childhood room. It beckoned me in but delighted as the gate slammed before me. For a moment I hesitated but then remembered my rebellious days. I caught hold on that ancient oak that had led me over the wall after midnight drinking as a young man. Within its wilted bark, it carried be over the black iron gate and perched me high above the yellowed grass of the front yard.
Within the tree, I paused for a moment, tuning my ears to a new sound that had a churning quality like someone stirring a large stew. After glaring through the dark windows of the house, I saw that the sound came from just below me. At the bottom of the oak’s trunk, I saw the familiar black fur of a once dear friend. He had hidden with me during drunken fights and barked out as scotch tumblers smashed into the walls. Below the oak tree is where I had once buried Cosmo as a small boy. It was the same place where I saw him now, chewing on a girl’s face.
No comments have been added yet.
