When Something Begins It Starts To End
She's been away longer than she was here.
So strange.
Home.
How that changes.
At some point two years turned into twenty and the old neighbourhood is now unrecognizable. Everything's smaller, less foreboding.
Even Mr. Robichaud's hand hammered lawn ornaments seem tiny.
Spent, worn, rusted out.
Marnie's old house feels minuscule, a bungalow on a postage stamp lot facing an overgrown, decommissioned public park.
Barbed wire fence and tagged clapboard demarcate what was once their secret hideaway.
Where Do Not Enter meant Come On In.
Flashlights and stolen magazines, hooch water concoctions and bottle upon bottle of dry roasted barbecue peanuts.
So many memories here.
Whatever clarity she had is obscured by nostalgia.
When something begins it also starts to end.
She read that the other day and can't shake it loose.
Why bother starting anything if there's no hope, no possibility of infinite happiness?
She longs for the old days of pure potential when the what ifs were sure things.
Things were going to get better.
More than this.
Something intangible, just out of reach that kept them striving, plotting, dreaming, hoping.
But if the beginning is the end, why start at all?
The wind shifts. She's without her hat and her ears are ringing.
She's sensitive to the cold now.
A glove slips out of an overstuffed pocket, she squats down to pick it up.
Marnie stops, stares out at what was once her front yard.
Where do merry go rounds go to die?
So strange.
Home.
How that changes.
At some point two years turned into twenty and the old neighbourhood is now unrecognizable. Everything's smaller, less foreboding.
Even Mr. Robichaud's hand hammered lawn ornaments seem tiny.
Spent, worn, rusted out.
Marnie's old house feels minuscule, a bungalow on a postage stamp lot facing an overgrown, decommissioned public park.
Barbed wire fence and tagged clapboard demarcate what was once their secret hideaway.
Where Do Not Enter meant Come On In.
Flashlights and stolen magazines, hooch water concoctions and bottle upon bottle of dry roasted barbecue peanuts.
So many memories here.
Whatever clarity she had is obscured by nostalgia.
When something begins it also starts to end.
She read that the other day and can't shake it loose.
Why bother starting anything if there's no hope, no possibility of infinite happiness?
She longs for the old days of pure potential when the what ifs were sure things.
Things were going to get better.
More than this.
Something intangible, just out of reach that kept them striving, plotting, dreaming, hoping.
But if the beginning is the end, why start at all?
The wind shifts. She's without her hat and her ears are ringing.
She's sensitive to the cold now.
A glove slips out of an overstuffed pocket, she squats down to pick it up.
Marnie stops, stares out at what was once her front yard.
Where do merry go rounds go to die?
beautiful.
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