July 2023

July 2023

The king is dead.

Or he could be. That’s what we learn as we take the story apart and put it back together like a puzzle on the floor in the attic room.

The old Scottish king is dead. Or dying. Or off page, offstage somewhere, changing into a different costume. They make it seem so easy, these humans do, to take off and put on different selves. The girl keeps shelves and shelves of them. Overflowing baskets, and an overstuffed closet rail that is bowed toward breaking. Somedays, when very tired, she takes herself off and puts a fresh self on.

I don’t have that luxury. The change. It’s been the same brick and mortar since the beginning. And when we play, I’m always playing myself. She says there are no cottages in this story (their loss), but I could play a castle with a raven croaking himself raw on my battlements.

The battlements are pretend. The raven too. I summon an owl, but he’s too quiet and keeps missing his cues.

I’m committed to the game though, it’s rare and wonderful to be something else. I practice while the girl is gone up the mountain picking berries and worms, looking for witches. I run lines with the cedars. I hold the space.

The king is dead. The spot is out. The witches are late.

But I will play. I will keep playing. I will be the castle in the misty Scottish moor, and if we pretend soft enough there might just be a breeze through the window to break the heat and rock the girl in her restless hammock back to dreaming up crowns.

Long live the king,

the apple house