The floor of the kitchen was a pattern of hexagons,
brown, red, orange.
Some days I would only step on the brown ones,
which was a challenge because there seemed to be more orange.
The living room carpet was a sea of red.
Lava, as far as the eye could see.
It defied gravity to climb the stairs,
lapping at the doorways there.
My sister’s room had a brown carpet,
mine was orange,
as was my parent’s.
I grew up immersed in the tones of autumn,
in a house that lived in anticipation of winter
with it’s dark walls inside,
towering cedar trees out,
and black beams running the length of the shallow roof slant.
I know now that it’s called a gambrel roof,
and the general consensus suggests it’s not a practical style for a house.
Tell me something I don’t know.
No, seriously, tell me something I don’t know.
There is much.
I feel infinitely analog in this digital landscape.
I learned about being receptive from a television antenna
which required human interaction
to get a clear signal.
It was the first house I lived in with a sloping roof,
I have a feeling it won’t be the last,
there have been a couple since,
and at least one more, I think.
I don’t know how I know, I just do.
Same way I knew that the lava could not get into the bathroom,
the place I first discovered I was a mermaid,
the only room with a light coloured floor,
which mum tried to defeat by painting the walls
a wickedly inappropriate fuschia.
I think it was, anyhow.
Memory shifts like the tide.
Clarity moves in and out,
pertinent details require a jostling,
much like the tv antenna with the wire attached
so dad could stand between the house and the carport,
desperate for connection,
while we yelled, “that’s it!” in a chain of voices from family room,
through kitchen window.
Connections run deep,
threads of memories woven into my blood,
salty like the sea,
like a lava coloured carpet.
Today’s deck is the Herbcrafter’s Tarot.