erin

wish dish

I blame Dr. Seuss.

It’s a belief that solidified in my head after all the rhyming, the fish wish dish stuff.

I was easily influenced by rhyming things. My mother says I used to try to put a hat on the cat and cry when he wouldn’t wear it.

(My mother can’t stand Dr. Seuss. Or Curious George, but I never cared much for him either, with that weird yellow hat guy.)

I don’t try to force fedoras on kittens anymore but that dish wish thing stuck in my mind.

It stuck without the fish, and with a technicality: you have to break a dish to make your wish properly.

I know it sounds silly, but broken dish wishing works.

Though it means I constantly have to stock up on dishes.

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

a saturday afternoon quest for power

It’s a stupid thing to search for, she tells me, for about the hundredth time since we started walking.

I ask her if it would be better to search for Knowledge and she says that it would.

Well, Knowledge is Power, isn’t it? I ask, and that shuts her up for a good half an hour but after we find the next marker (a rock this time, engraved instead of painted and half-hidden in the grass) she starts up again.

How do you know you’ll get to keep it if you find it? she asks.

I’m not sure but I don’t tell her that.

We’ll figure that out when we reach it, I say.

Then she asks if we have a big enough bag if we need to bring it home and I worry that I haven’t thought this through properly.

I suggest that she look for shapes in the clouds, distracting her while I search for the next sign with another arrow to point the way.

She finds a pirate ship and a dancing bear.

I start to wonder what it is I’m looking for.

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

accidental poetry

It’s the easiest way to compose a poem, he tells me.

I don’t believe him, but I nod in what I hope is a thoughtful-looking way as he throws the letters up into the air. I make a silent mental note that he used the word compose and not write.

We both watch as the letters cascade to the ground in random patterns: a W overlapping an R, a zig-zag that could be a Z or a sideways N.

An O joins an M for a momentary meditation before they separate again.

Once the letters settle they’re all nonsense and I can’t find any proper words.

I try to tell him that I’m still not sure I understand how it’s supposed to work but he shushes me, already scribbling in his notebook.

I stare at the pile of letters, searching for words though there aren’t nearly enough vowels.

There’s a B next to an R with a Y that reminds me of a girl I once knew named Briony who laced her shoes backwards with the bows near the toes.

And now I think I get it.

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

the storied pasts of carousel ponies

Once they were real ponies, because that’s how such stories go.

(Before that they were real boys, of course. Princes and paupers and a solitary thief, each with their own individual pre-pony story.)

It was a curse of some sort, though none of them would tell the same tale now were they able to speak of it. They were frozen mid-gallop and later, much later, there was music and lights and the delighted laughs and squeals of children.

It wasn’t so bad, as curses go.

Quite a few of them found it rather fun, unless the children kicked too hard. And even the grumpiest pony agreed that the feel of wind as they spun was decadent and wild, reminiscent of the real-pony days.

But the spinning and the lights and the music all ceased long ago, replaced by stillness and slowly fading paint.

Sometimes they hum tunes from various past lives softly to themselves as they wait for their next story.

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