garage (4/27/17)
there has always been comfort in an empty, old garage
space has been meticulously carved for a car that isn’t there
piles of boxes line the walls, in a perpetual state of limbo, never fully unpacked
the air is musty and old, and bare footsteps echo so loudly they fill your head with whispers
empty garages are often the best places to think
the smell of gasoline, pungent and deadly, lingers in the air like a suggestion
you go there often, perched on the broken white bench that your father was too stubborn to throw away
it sits there always, rickety and with an arm missing, stuffed to the brim with umbrellas and wires
even broken things have a place here
garages act as a purgatory
items that have been outgrown wait anxiously to be whisked away to the unknown
you wonder if they yearn to have a purpose once more
you wonder if they ever have, if they ever will
old books that had once filled you with joy are stacked neatly atop one another, a tower of memories, happy and youthful and hopelessly naive
the smell of gasoline tickles your nose as you turn away from them
when the bubbling anger becomes too loud to hide from behind closed bedroom doors, you retreat once more to the garage
you are a refugee desperately searching for some sort of escape
the car is there this time, filling up the empty space, and you crawl beneath it, desperate to make yourself small
gasoline encompases your senses as you squeeze your eyes shut
you wish you could put yourself in a box and venture off to the unknown
the garage is a place for broken things
it makes sense you feel so comfortable there
one afternoon your grandfather shifts the narrative
you spend two hours making a little birdhouse together, painted red by a shaky hand
it’s constructed of wood leftover from something broken
and, for once, you dare to hope that some broken things can be fixed
garages give lessons in hiding
surrounded by piles of forgotten things you feel safe
tucked somewhere in-between broken and outgrown
here you learn that being invisible is the best way to survive
you aren’t the best at it though
a phone is thrown and it shatters at your feet
something in you shatters with it
you wait until you hear the stirring of an engine
pressed against your bedroom door, bolted shut
before you run down to the comfort of the garage
garages were designed to hold cars
houses were designed to hold children
the garage continues to exist without the car
you think that the house could survive without a child
the smell of gasoline fills your nose as shaky hands write a note that no one will read and tears fall silently onto speckled concrete where no one will notice
the tell-tale rattle of noise interrupts your anguish as the garage door starts to open
you flee
in the broken white bench, paint chipped and arm missing
a corner of your soul rests among the umbrellas and wires on a torn piece of paper
immortalized among all the other things outgrown, forgotten, and broken
