Pillar

It was the same hill. The one with the dogwalk path circling, poo-bag stations pending, benches and two trees leaning in its center. I intended to run a half-circle as I always did, threading through the metal fences toward the shopping district — making sure to ignore it, half the time. Most the time. At least when I’m especially out of breath.

But it seemed so inviting in its 2pm sunlight scatter. Branches all barren. For a moment it stood on its own, azaleas dangling, before the last twenty years draped in.

Well, it was a planned three day visit. My mother was still working in the language arts department, nearing retirement. But she’d always protest about it, insisting it’s not much and she’ll go five years more. Anyway, it was a while since we last spoke so I flew down.

The airport was the same as I left it. At least it seemed. Of course some of the security guards were missing, and of course most people don’t experience this sort of airport anyway. The type where they roll the stairs up and the baggage claim spans no more than a two room preschool. Descending the steps I could take in some wheatgrass spanning miles, beyond the formless open-air concrete. I knew it all at once, and for a moment I felt confident enough to get through the rest.

She was in the midst of autumn classes so I took a taxi to her duplex hanging off the campus edge. There was a note taped on the door, “Make yourself at home!” and I kicked aside the doormat for the spare key.

It was hard stepping through, honestly. My face felt all flush avoiding the photos. In a stabilizing attempt I stared at the stairwell railing and wooden bulb at the end that I’d hold onto, peering around the kitchen entrance for midnight cookies. It was fun being the smuggler for my younger siblings upstairs. I was spoiled with their hushed giggles and smiles. Crumbs captured on a spare napkin, cross-legged on the bedroom carpet.

Walking into the kitchen I traced my hand along the arch of the chairs, slightly disjointed, always were. It was a tight fit. The round table up against bay windows didn’t help. Tint wall pastel yellow spreading around and toward the sink, but it looks like the five cuckoo clocks were all still ticking. We’d play a game to guess which wooden creature would show its face first, which you’d think it’d be the same, but there was a random offset between each clock. I’d always select the third one, near the center — maybe as a hope to bind the rest of the clocks together. Two of them were broken.