erin

three small deaths on the back gate

When I found the deaths hanging on the back gate I went back in the house to tell my mother, but once she came outside to see them for herself she didn’t seem very concerned.

Oh, they’re just small deaths, she said, picking up the whispy corner of a tattered robe. It slipped through her fingers like water and returned to its ominous hovering. I think the skeleton-face wearing it frowned, but it was difficult to tell.

What’s a small death? I asked.

Death of a hope or a dream, maybe an opportunity, and that slightly bigger guy on the end could be the death of a relationship, but if he is I doubt it was a particularly long one. 

Three seems a lot of deaths all at once, I said. She nodded.

Life insists on happening all at once, she said. So does death.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

on the beach in purgatory

The beach was cold and partially covered in lingering snow and completely deserted except for a fluffy black dog near the shoreline, he trotted right up to me when I came near.

The dog wore a collar with tags so I checked them but they were only medallions of silver carved in designs with no discernible words.

“I’m not lost,” the dog said, cocking his head at me. “I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I asked. He paused before he answered. I straightened his tags because I’d put them askew trying to read them.

“For things that I have no control over to change,” he said after a moment. “Or maybe pirates.”

“Me too,” I replied, and we waited together after that.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

love will be there in the morning

I thought that love had finally decided to leave me alone.

It had come and gone before and never stayed for very long or hurt too much, so when it left I was mostly okay, just standard sad and lonely.

Then one day in February there was a heart on my front door.

I figured it was a mistake or an early, meaningless valentine but I left it up anyway because it was pretty.

The next morning it was still there, along with another heart.

The day after that there were more, different sizes and shades of red and pink but all bright and warm and they made me smile.

It took me a while to realize that it wasn’t a mistake, that they were really for me.

It’s been a year now and all the hearts are still on the door, they haven’t faded in the sun or anything.

All the love is still here, too.

There’s more of it every day.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.