The Sound of Things to Come

And they tell you that the way all things are will change, and this order will not return. And no one knows precisely how, only that this will happen. And the sweet flavors of life will sour. And the pains of this world will blossom in the next. And the plastic sided home, with the two-car garage and the granite countertops you are indebted for, will decay. And its walls will fall. And the sheen on the fake-wood floors will tire. And the joists will weaken and cave. And all the streets on your block, named after species of fish, will crisp and break. And the creek that trickles past your neighbors’ yard will wiggle and meander its way under the home‘s foundation. And the hill upon which this entire development rests will slough into the deciduous green below. But none of this will happen until long after you are dead. So there’s nothing about any of this which should worry you.

Your cement driveway is dark and polished smooth, with rough, colorful aggregate intervals. It is the kind of detail you like to notice, but rarely remember. You like to think of what visitors to your home will think when they see your driveway. You like to think what children will look like riding their colorful bikes in circles around it. Blue and yellow bikes. You will clean off the tire marks. You wish you could ride bikes in circles.

The 2002 Toyota Sequoia sits in front of the garage door. It leaves a small greasy stain where the oil slowly drips from a loose bolt.

Green. Numbing green. Calm. Thick grass like moss. Black rubber barriers to keep the wood chippings in place surround your aspen sapling. Sprinklers, flat plastic discs on timers. A yellow spot over your septic tank. It will grow dark green there in fall.

The name of your street is Chinook St. which is the name of an anadramous fish that once battled its way up creeks and valleys from the sea to spawn, just below your home, in what is now the Boyd’s back yard. Their street is called Perch St.

There are few wonders as potent to you as this new home. The rounded edges and corners, the smooth chestnut browns and wood grains. These wonders are yours. Their existence rests in you. Together it forms something far greater than any of its component parts. It is a power that you are at a loss to describe. The smell of paint. The shadow against the picture frame.

The planet revolves, facing away from the sun’s rays. It is night. You lay, beaming into the dark above your bed. This life is all that matters. The creaking pipes are your cicadas. The groaning beams are your frog songs. No future could rend this present. It is yours. It is yours. It is yours.