Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Ghost House

Ghost House

Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963

I dwell in a lonely house I know 
That vanished many a summer ago, 
   And left no trace but the cellar walls, 
   And a cellar in which the daylight falls 
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. 
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield 
The woods come back to the mowing field; 
   The orchard tree has grown one copse 
   Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; 
The footpath down to the well is healed. 
I dwell with a strangely aching heart 
In that vanished abode there far apart 
   On that disused and forgotten road 
   That has no dust-bath now for the toad. 
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; 
The whippoorwill is coming to shout 
And hush and cluck and flutter about: 
   I hear him begin far enough away 
   Full many a time to say his say 
Before he arrives to say it out. 
It is under the small, dim, summer star. 
I know not who these mute folk are 
   Who share the unlit place with me—
   Those stones out under the low-limbed tree 
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. 
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
   With none among them that ever sings, 
   And yet, in view of how many things, 
As sweet companions as might be had.

I recently assigned a Hot Flash Friday task to writing about an abandoned structure, the abandoned houses of our childhood. I recently came across this poem by Robert Frost and I thought how exactly he captured the feeling. The feeling that spaces once habitated, once alive but now empty or hollow or ruined come to fill us. There is something compelling about a ruin that calls us to come explore.

To this day I can detail the places I’ve stumbled upon, vacated, and the stuff left behind. Some of these images impressed themselves into my writing. See Below:

Young and Dumb
Originally published in Flashquake, Summer 2009

She ran away when she was seventeen. Hooked up with a guy on the bus and together they rode to Denver. But he turned out to be trouble. One night she slipped away from the room they rented. By the neon strobe she packed a bag, took his wallet while he slept. On the way out of town she stopped at a diner with a funky name and ordered a chicken dinner. Ate it to the bone.

It was a bad space. She couldn’t go home. Let’s leave it at that. And she didn’t have anywhere else to go, except names on a map. She preferred the blue roads, the ones that branched off, growing more and more anonymous, changing names in different locales, adapting to the terrain. Often dead-ending.

She was okay on her own. She knew enough to get by. Her step brothers had taught her karate. Really more like Three Stooges gestures. She knew how to scream. Enough to do damage to her vocal cords, until her stomach muscles ached. Until black night melted and she moved on. Her few possessions tied to her back.

She carried in her pocket stray bits. A bottle cap. A white cockleshell. A key. To what door she did not know. A piece of paper with a phone number on it that accidentally blew away 

from her. It skidded across the road and whooshed up an embankment, airborne over a barbed wire fence, and landed in a field of stubble and stick grass. She cut across that snowy field to a farmhouse. Long abandoned.

The front door was open. So she closed it. A grease-yellowed curtain lightly exhaled, the window sash unlatched. Trash, swirled into corners, occupied the first room. Loose wallpaper sagged, water stained. In the back on the first floor was a kitchen. A mouse scurried from the back of the stove to a crack in the floorboard. She righted an overturned chair. The silence scared her.

A fury of thoughts flooded her brain, most of them connected to late-night horror movies watched on TV.

There was a staircase in the middle of the house, dividing it in two. She gripped a rail and ascended one step at a time. Listening for monsters. Creaks and audible breath. The whoosh of bat wings. Upstairs she found more of the same. Remnants. An old Sears catalogue. A pile of rags, once clothes. Animal droppings. A tin plate covered a hole back when there used to be gaslight. She picked up a child’s toy, a bobble head plastic boy. The wire to his head a weak neck.

Who were they, the former occupants? What moved them on? Had the family disintegrated, broken by divorce, violence, stupid mistakes? There were all sorts of reasons. She tried to draw from the clues left behind some kind of explanation. She reckoned they were young and dumb.

She never meant to stay. It rained the next day, and the day after that. A solid week of damn miserable rain. She lit a fire in the fireplace, expecting any minute for a neighbor to come check the place out, for a cop to pull into the puddle-rutted drive. Instead it was as if she’d fallen off the face of the earth. She learned to keep her own company, separate the voices inside her head. The good ones from the bad and make up her own mind. In town she bought groceries and hauled them back to the farm. Simple fare, easy enough to cook over the fire or eat raw. She licked her fingers and wiped them on her jeans. Slowly a sense of well-being came over her. The kind that comes with a full tummy, warmth, and forgetfulness, where the crazy windmill inside her finally slowed down.

                                                            * * *

Years later while slicing tomatoes, she will look up. Her memory ignited by who knows what. Another kitchen, another house, she remembers. Through the window the back yard with the kids’ swing set is aglow with late afternoon light. And putting down the knife, she breathes a prayer.

687 words

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