My childhood home is crumbling. An underfunded museum, grants are few, and donations even less. A caretaker dodders through the space, preparing for visitors, though attendance remains perennially low. Local artists nailed to the gallery walls are little appreciated and fated only for further depreciation at the next garage sale. For security, there is a single long-haired cat who also handles pest control. She is constantly requesting a raise and commendations for sub-par service. Any furniture in the galleries is of unknown provenance and questionable construction. Beds are covered with sheets that smell of Downy and carcinogens. Stacked in the corners are dozens of crocheted blankets in every hue and pattern as if their thick presence alone could ward off the bite of winter. Layers of dust weigh on shoulder pads hung up in the Lost and Don’t Bother Finding. Behind vault doors are cracked frames and bits of things that might be useful someday. Banker’s boxes hold up the plaster walls, stuffed with the fading past and crinkled achievements of little note, dreaming of the day they’ll be audited.
There is a sister gallery with a much higher turnout. More modern in taste. The artist in residence has paid dearly to mount this production. No limbs, just an organ and a half. Two at a time, you can sit with her. Ask your questions, get no answers. Perhaps this is the artist as God. I ask the docents for help in understanding the discolored tubes, the flashing numbers. Jaundice yellow dripping in a plastic bag, red streaming in another. What’s it all mean? The words they use are quick, confident, erudite. Some words have meaning. The practiced phrases have less. The arch concept is lost on me. My allotted time ends. Other visitors wait to pay their respects. Walking away, I begin to understand. Behind the criss-cross of plastic snakes biting swollen flesh, concealed by layers of rough linen and tearable plastic, beneath a mask of wrinkles smoothed out by gravity and Dilaudid, and deeply scarred in the name of healing, my childhood home is crumbling.
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A/N
Similar to the poem linked below, this is from a particular moment that looked a bit bleak. Currently, to really mix my metaphors, my childhood home is eating jello and and getting ready to spruce things up for tourist season.
About the Creator
Sean A.
A happy guy that tends to write a little cynically. Just my way of dealing with the world outside my joyous little bubble.
Comments (9)
Whoa Sean, this is sad...losing an important part of oneself. But wonderfully descriptive.
A fascinating read… I especially like: “ For security, there is a single long-haired cat who also handles pest control. She is constantly requesting a raise and commendations for sub-par service.” 💖✅
This one was layered and layered with nostalgia. I feel sort of heavy now 🤔
Bookending with the same evocative phrase was a masterful stroke. So many striking images and layers of emotion to this
Wow, this hit me deep! I love how you bring that worn-down vibe to life with humor especially the cat demanding a raise. Keep writing these gems! ✨
This felt like I was following you through a weird dream, a tour of your subconscious. Incredibly evocative, Shaun.
Well-wrought, friend. You evoke many grim images in an eloquent way which I can understand and deeply appreciate. You draw out both the beauty and the sorrow of decay here. Bless you, and may it lead you to peace.
A little cynical with a sprinkle of truth, I am guessing
💙