I drove past the house and its paint was falling like the skin of onions fully cured. It probably would have sounded like it, too, had I stopped to remember, had I placed it between fore and thumb, squeezing—or not, its strength no match for even the approach—and I thought about death. When cut off from the source will I unravel, too, and crumble in this way, my layers releasing, departing , moving farther away from me and closer to something else?
The funny thing is, the house smelled the same as it did back then. Another funny thing: it’s hard to smell things when they’ve turned to dust.
I pace the boundary, lightly treading, and everything seems smaller than before. Maybe size does matter. When you are infinite so seems the world, and all is always upward.
—A house of mirrors?
But now my glare is pointed south, scanning for traces of a fossil path. I’ll pour the mold. I’ll take it home. I’ll put it on the mantle.
It will last forever and collect dust.