flax-golden

the floral post

I thought the box on the fence was a proper mailbox because it said “post” but the first outgoing letter I put inside reappeared on my windowsill the next day with a key on top that kept the wind from carrying it away and a solitary indigo-and-yellow pansy.

I knew the key would fit the box but I tested it anyway, just to be sure.

It still took me awhile to figure out how it worked, at least in concept.

Sometimes it’s a single blossom waiting inside the box. Other days the floral post brings full bouquets or potted orchids.

Often there are roses–white or red or yellow flame-tipped–in shades that always seem to suit my mood.

Once there were only petals, a rainbow of color that fluttered to the sidewalk like the misplaced feathers of countless tropical birds.

I haven’t figured out how they get there, though I’m not sure I want to know. The flowers don’t appear every day but they arrive quite frequently and I’ve never seen anyone go near the box.

When there’s something inside to find, the yellow painted flower glows a little brighter.

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

we cannot see our destination but we can see far enough to get there

When we reach the shore we debate whether it is a lake or a pond or an ocean or a sea or a large puddle and we decided to call it the briny deep even though we can’t tell how deep it is because it sounds appropriately mysterious and a teensy bit dangerous.

We can see the path curling up the hill past the opposite shore and the briny deep is in our way so it is a challenge and together we shall overcome it.

We do not have a boat so we build one from wood and wax and wishes and we fashion sails for it from scraps of silk though they are mostly for show as there is not much wind and we paint little wings on our oars.

(We make wheels for the boat so we can continue to sail-row-roll along the path and we will not have to leave our boat behind.)

We stomp and splash at the edge of the briny deep where it is not so deep before we set sail.

(Things that can be stomped upon and splashed do not seem so scary after they have been stomped and splashed.)

We row onto the briny deep and we sing songs and then the clouds begin to roll in until they are one big cloud covering the entire sky and the wind comes and tugs too hard at our silk sails and waves splash over the boat and then the boat is upside down.

When the sun comes out the boat is on the opposite shore in broken bits and the sails are tangled shreds of ribbon and there is sand in my pockets and I am soggy and alone.

I yell and cry and no one answers except the birds who cry back and tell me not to fuss so much and help me gather up the useful pieces of the boat and braid the ribbons of silk into my hair.

I keep going, following the curly path up the hill, because we always promised we would keep going no matter what sort of challenges the wide world sent to us and I want to keep our word.

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

impending doom in fluffy coats

The fence won’t hold, when it comes down to it.

Everyone knows this—the fear is of when and not of if—but it is not a subject for discussion.

The fence is only the semblance of protection. A gesture. A symbol.

Better than nothing.

Easier than meeting death head on.

When the sheep get hungry enough, it will be nothing to them to break it.

They will crush the rusted barbed wire between their teeth like young grass.

And we’ll be next.

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

the best revenge

I made lists of meanings and astrological correspondences but now that I’m in the store I feel lost.

There are so many shelves and faced with all the ingredients in separate jars and bottles I’m instantly overwhelmed trying to remember how they’re supposed to be combined and what everything means and what it is I need.

And I don’t really know what it is that I need so I stare at the faded label on a jar of white sage and try not to cry.

The shopkeeper, a tall guy with cobalt blue dreadlocks and a nice smile, asks me if I’m okay and I manage a nod.

I expect him to ask me what I’m looking for so I try to come up with a proper answer. Protection, maybe. Or revenge.

But he doesn’t ask, he just offers me a cup of yerba mate tea with lemongrass and suddenly we’re talking about how tea tastes better when served in proper cups rather than paper ones and discussing literature and cinnamon and fate.

I don’t end up buying anything, he won’t even let me pay for the tea.

As I’m leaving he gives me a single violet from a pot on the windowsill and tells me that living well is the best revenge.

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

undisclosed intentions of departing angels

The angels left the cemetery yesterday, I don’t think anyone saw them go except for me. There were other people around but they all seemed preoccupied with thoughts and stones and flowers.

The angels stepped down from monuments and mausoleums and walked quietly away.

One of them passed by where I was sitting and left a single feather in its wake, soft but cold and grey as stone. I pressed it carefully between the pages of my notebook but it was gone when I got home.

Today the news is calling the disappearance thievery or vandalism or performance art.

I doubt they’d believe me if I informed them that the angels left of their own accord.

Besides, it’s not my business. I’m sure the angels had their reasons.

Perhaps they were needed elsewhere.

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

lights that guide the way to destinies untold

The path is there, somewhere.

Or so they tell me.

I suspect it is a gentle lie to strengthen my belief.

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes I can trust that there is a path set out for me to find.

Obscured in thorn-laced wildflowers and twisting vines.

Hazardous to navigate.

Sometimes.

I believe in the lampposts more than I believe in the path.

Because I can see them in the dark.

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