Piano Wires

The walnut tree stood outside the witch’s house. When you are ten years old, there is a distinct possibility that someone is a witch. English walnut or black walnut? I’m not so sure. Black. I like to think black. Her old house was unpainted or the paint had peeled and the wood was bleached by the sun. The wood was gray from age and the weather. And the witch sat in her living room on her rocker and she was gray from age and the weather. The sky was gray. My thoughts were gray.

But not the newly installed picture window that separated us. The glass was new and clear and unscratched. Perfect.

In this scene I stood by the side of the road as if I were part of the picture I am now painting. Scatter small flakes of yellows and greens, small shimmers, like wind chimes in a soundless landscape.

Oh, yes. And her hair was gray, like piano wires. 

(Sotto): He’s going off here. Why’s he going off? Piano wires? Where’s he going with this? He can be freakin’ scary, man.

 

from All Drinking Aside (Chapter 56)