flax-golden

ghosts in the park

There are ghosts in the park but no one else seems to be able to see them.

When I told my mom she said “of course there are, dear” but she wasn’t looking right at the ghost lady even though I pointed.

I tested her, too. I said “isn’t her hat nice and floppy for the sunshine?” and my mom said “yes it is, she must be a sensible ghost to have a hat like that” and then I knew she couldn’t see the ghost lady because the ghost lady wasn’t wearing a hat.

The hatless ghost lady smiled at me but she didn’t say anything.

The next day there were two ghost ladies sitting on the bench but all they did was talk about the weather and politics and shoes. Neither of them had hats.

Now there’s always at least two or three park ghosts. The most I’ve seen at once is five and that day I had to yell at a bunch of kids who tried to sit on the ghost bench and my mom got mad and told the kids and a mom and two dads that I have an overactive imagination.

But the ghosts all said thank you.

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

springtime wisdom imparted by flirtatious rabbits

On sunny days in the spring I like to sit out in the field, usually with a book and a green tea lemonade. Sometimes the rabbits come very close like they want to see what I’m reading but this was the first time one of them actually struck up a conversation.

There were some almost-awkward pauses and a few clumsy remarks about the weather and he seemed like he might bolt back across the field at any moment, but eventually he settled down for a good long chat.

He mentioned that he doesn’t like carrots, which I found surprising but he called it a cartoon-propagated rabbit stereotype.

He nibbled clover while I sipped my green tea lemonade.

We talked about life and about change. About heartbreaks and choices and difficulties, spring-blooming, equinox rebirth and new possibilities.

He told me that he prefers to hop higher when the ground gets difficult to walk on. His tone suggested this was something of a metaphor.

In that mid-air moment, he said, it feels like flying.

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

monitoring system

We were on the waiting list for almost six months before we got our new apartment. The realtor kept talking about the list as a positive, like the building is superior because it has a list.

It could be that it’s small or that people ask to live here for the sake of being on a waiting list, as though a building you can waltz right into simply isn’t as cool.

The building is actually quite cool, though, with lots of brick and odd corners. The kind of building you’d be wary of playing hide-and-seek in because you might never be found.

Technically I don’t think I was supposed to be in the fenced-off part near the back gardens where I found the tangle of pipes and meters that would have been practically invisible against the brick in the shadows but I happened to be there when the sun was falling just right to see them clearly.

At first I thought it was some sort of plumbing or heating thing, the meters were labeled so I found the one for our apartment and the display said Moderate Contentment – Acclimating with the little arrow pointing towards the top.

I checked a few of the others and they said things like Mild Annoyance – Passing and High Contentment – Maintaining.

I asked the building manager about them and he called it a “Monitoring System.”

He just smiled at me when I asked if he ever needs to make adjustments.

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

ever-changing endearments

I shall write you a thousand love letters in a multitude of colors.

Scrawl them in chalk on the pavement outside your house.

(Though some will be neatly written and artistically composed, easier to decipher than the almost-illegible passionate scrawls.)

They will be washed away by rain or snow or street sweepers.

Scuffed into dust by the soles of passing shoes.

There is no way to protect them from such things.

They may even vanish before you have a chance to read them.

But when the ground is clear and dry again I will write more messages, with new words and different color combinations.

That way my love will never fade.

It will be renewed and changed and it will grow with each iteration.

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

of impractical footwear and inevitabilities 

He started walking on a Tuesday.

It wasn’t snowing when he left but the flakes began to fall within hours of his departure, as he knew they would.

His shiny leather shoes were not well-suited for the weather, but that did not deter him.

He kept a steady pace as his shoes slowly lost their shine, and his toes grew colder.

He never looked back. Not once did he turn to see the line of footprints that marked his progress, though they never lasted long.

Trails left in snow are difficult to follow.

But that didn’t matter.

He knew it would catch up with him eventually.

It always did.

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

necessary supplies

My sister takes this bag with her everywhere, like a Mary Poppins bag only hers actually gets bigger from putting so much stuff in it so it’s practically as big as she is but she still carries it all the time, no matter where she goes.

Someday she’ll be an excellent nomad.

Right now it just slows her down when we walk, especially in the snow. I make a point to leave twenty minutes early whenever I have to take her anywhere. Even beyond the bag she gets easily distracted by all sorts of things, but if I complain to Mom about it she says I need to allow her to fully explore her curiosity and doesn’t seem to care that between her curiosity and her giant bag we’re always late for things, but Mom also says things like time is an illusion.

“What are you doing?” I ask my sister as she stops mid-walk to pull a scarf from her bag and tie it around a tree.

“Trees get cold,” she says, as though this is an obvious fact.

“Someone’s just going to take it,” I tell her, but she only shrugs.

“That’s okay. Maybe they’re cold, too.”

She gives the tree a friendly pat and then hefts her bag back on her shoulder so we can continue our slow journey through the snow.

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