Lost in the Grass

The old, red barn behind the house was where we went to pretend we had a life of our own. Our parents had flown off somewhere far away, we assured ourselves. So we retreated to the cobwebs and the smell of damp wood.

It was more of a shed, really.

We would draw up plans for a fort in the woods, wooden planks stretching from tree to tree by the sound of the river quibbling with the fallen boughs in an argument that was a soundtrack to our escape.

Background noise for adventure. But why are you so quiet?

Back to the damp wood, the ladder in the back with the nails beaten downward, can’t make that mistake again. I’m a severe arachnophobe, but somehow spiders cant live in this shed. The possibility, anyway, had never crossed my mind. I was never worried. Only wasps pestered us in the loft.

Humidity too; regardless a nap felt so inviting on the threadbare blanket we stole from the laundry room shelf so we could have a place all to ourselves. Where adults were too busy to go, and we could just be brothers. If only we could.

Back to the woods again with a piece of plywood we found in the field, blown astray by the wicked canyon winds that bent trees and tore siding from the house. It sure did make dad cuss. But today, it was the courier of an incredible treasure, we couldn’t believe our luck. Why did it have to be so heavy? It should have been easy for two.

No nails, but we had a knife. Notches in the tree branches, wedge in the plywood, and we have become pioneers. You stand there and strike a pose like the guy on top of all the Mormon temples, holding a branch for a trumpet; we laugh and eat corn dogs and potato wedges from the service station down the road. Yours go unfinished. I stare at the food uneasily.

Back to the red shed, a can of wasp spray in hand. The smell of wet timber, a humidity that never leaves. It reminds me of the ruined boat in the desert where I used to live. Pieces of the out-of-place watercraft all over my backyard, rotting after the pounding rain the ground can’t fully drink.

Up the ladder into the loft. Peer at the house through the single square window with narrowed eyes and hushed muttering. A clandestine operation we imagine in our heads. You push me into the roll of itchy insulation and laugh, skipping the ladder and bolting to the yard. I pursue, but you were nowhere to be found.

We lay out at night, sleeping bags on the trampoline, but we can’t sit still. We pretend to smoke cigarettes made of rolled leaves and wood shavings. Wouldn’t you have guessed, it doesn’t work. Retreating to the soft grass, you give me a warning.

“If you close your eyes, you’ll fall into a trance. You’ll get trapped in another world, and the only way to escape could be to find a single blade of grass. Your body will be paralyzed, and you will be stuck here until you find a way to get out.”

Somehow, the warning makes more sense than anything our parents ever told us. Your words echo and I struggle to see where they came from.

But I can smell the damp wood of the red shed looming overhead, and it’s relaxing. I see mom on the back porch, her eyes stained with worry, but she leaves us to our devices. I doze despite your warning.

Picking blackberries in the morning, learning the hard way about thorns, bees, and seeds. You explain that we can make shakes and do pushups so I’ll get arms like yours, but only if I don’t tell anyone you snuck out the other night. I couldn’t imagine betraying the plots we conspired in together where the humidity traps the sound and the smell of damp wood feels like home.

But the woods are untouched. The berries unpicked. A single bag on the trampoline, and no plans scribbled in the loft.

Because I can still smell the damp wooden shed. And you’re sitting here alone.

-For Zach. Miss you, brother.