HOW TO REACH ME SWITCH PLATE IN CHICKEN

i know the stories you told me at night were just stories. the tall man living in the tall house with his tall dog until the tall wind blew him away. the children who kept going in and out of cabinets and appearing in other worlds. the secret gardens. the family who lived in a boat turned upside down on the shore of an ocean. a dragon who could be coerced by lollipops. the rain (oh that rain) that made applesauce.

i know they were just stories. but the way the room lit up at night wasn’t a story. the way the stars flew in the window. the way your words strung together a reality that took my breath away. none of that was a story. and when you had to leave (did you really have to leave?) it took me some time to discover the secret of the switch plate you left on my wall. her prosaic scene. the chickens pecking at a dusty bowl.

it wasn’t until a few night later when i flicked off the light and then just lay in bed: thinking of chickens, of women in bonnets, of your voice and stars, of tall men, of tree houses and worlds hidden behind couch cushions that i noticed something. the silo, yes, the one you see behind the barn, is full of stories. full of them. sifting over and under and through each other like wheat. and when the light is off and the chickens slow their pecking, you can hear the stories. the light chatter chatter chatter of stories elbowing and trying to peek their way out the chinks in the wood. in the dark, i still have my stories. and it makes it easier to miss you.

confession: something tripped in my brain after i had baby number two and turned thirty and my husband was actually making an income instead of an outgo. i discovered that i loved finding. (some people might insert the word “shopping” for “finding” — but it really is more an act of gathering. finding all sorts of delights large and small that i just want to gather closer to me somehow.) but actually collecting everything that i wish i could collect is not only financially irresponsible, but also a contradiction of everything i believe about simplicity. so. i have an idea. ever since i was little (don’t laugh) i wanted to write for the j. peterman company.  they’re not hiring me anytime soon, so i’m going to write my own catalogue. (yes, i find the extra “ue” sort of necessary.) so, here, occasionally when i find something that is worth writing about, i’m going to post it. and name it. and imagine a life for it. and let you enjoy the little treasures i stumble on, make them live with words so that i don’t have to buy them with money.

TINY ALIEN TEACUPS

you’ve just returned from the moon. something you didn’t think possible, but, look!, you’re holding the slice of the image in your hand. the moon. with your face, your husband’s face. some honeymoon. (not many people have that kind of cash.) and you’re sighing and remembering how stunning — how surprising and unreal — the earth looked from that far away. it was like your childhood globe, plastic, molded, a toy at your feet: you could take your hand and spin it, faster and faster and faster until tenochtitlan was flying into the gobi desert.

you wish it was the sort of place where you could have bought a souvenir, but as soon as you think it you realize how ridiculous. a keychain of the moon? a mousepad? a mug? it wouldn’t make sense to reduce the heavens to kitsch. and so you keep unpacking your bag and looking out the window at the apartment next door and looking and sighing and unpacking, when you pull a package you don’t remember from your bag. it’s brown paper. not taped or tied, just folded into an envelope. you’re curious and wary. you unwrap it. eleven tiny avocado green teacups. you line them up on your bed and notice a folded note stuck through the handle. you twist it open, not sure if you’re reading a fortune cookie or terrorism. and it says, “with love, the moon.”