A Sunday Smile

It is a cold day; cold, even, for the late winter winds that are expected in this place. I am in a large house on a corner – it’s the only house on the street that isn’t missing shingles from the roof, or suffering a bad paint job. I don’t know why that is, because I’ve never taken extraordinarily good care of it. Maybe I’ve never needed to. Things always seem to know what I want and bend towards it, without my having to ask. It’s been like that since I can remember.

There is no large amount of compassion in my body, not even a small one, for the people who have lived in those other houses. I know it and I don’t fear it – that is the important thing in life, I’ve been taught. To know yourself and not be afraid.

We are on different pages of the same story. Sometimes I even wonder if it is the same story, after all. I see their windows and doors open on occasion, I see their cars move from the driveway to the street, and to the driveway again. I see the people walk by under their umbrellas and I can laugh – oh, I can laugh – because they need those umbrellas. While I, I in my large corner house, need no one.

I am a man of routine, I always have been. This is how, on my regular walk around the block, I happened on a little girl. I have always walked in the late afternoon, cold or not. People always seem to know to get out of my way, and so I never have to speak. This girl, however, is not moving. She is sitting on the sidewalk, her head bowed in quiet contemplation over what seems to be nothing at all. She wears a small red raincoat that appears to be, on her, far too large. It is torn in places, and I notice that her shoes are worn thin on the soles. She disgusts me.

I stand still behind her and wait for her to move. She does not. I cough.

She turns her head and lifts her eyes to my face. Her own skin is dirt-streaked and wet; she looks like a beggar, but she can only be seven or eight. I am unmoved by her piteous exterior – beggars have played their parts on an empty stage where they imagined me an enthusiastic audience, but they have also been wrong.

Yet there is a light in her large eyes that I am aware of. It is nothing, but it is there anyways.

“I’ve seen you before.” She says, eyeing me with curiosity.
“I’ve lived here probably longer than you’ve been alive.” I say. “What are you looking at?”
She points to the shrubs by the sidewalk. “Worms. They come out after it rains, you know.”
“Disgusting.”
“Only if you step on them. My big brother steps on them sometimes, just to make me mad. I name them, you see, so then they belong to me – and he steps on them!”

I am tapping my foot by now but she isn’t noticing. “First of all, I am not interested in your brother or your worms, or what their names may be. But... why do they belong to you if you name them?”

I am sorry as soon as I’ve asked. But I push this thought away – I am sorry for nothing and to no one, especially not myself.

“Because it means I love them, I suppose.”

“You love the worms?”
“Oh yes.” She nods, excitedly. “I love everything and everyone.”

It is a childish response – but of course, she is a child. The answer means nothing, because it comes from nothing. She is sheltered, she is loved, by someone in one of these houses – she knows nothing of life.

“I see. Well you are blocking the sidewalk that I would love to walk on.”

She turns around all the way and sits facing me, but remains blocking the sidewalk. She merely tilts her head up and stares at me.

“I’ve seen you walk before.” She says, almost nonchalantly. “You never look at anything. Do you count your steps?”
“That’s silly.”
“It looks like you are, in your head. Why else are you so quiet?”
“I have things to think about.”
“What do you think about?”
“About things that are none of your concern. Now please move.”

At this she stands up and steps to one side, but she is still staring up at my face. It is agitating. I am three strides past her when she calls out to me.

“I’ve never seen anyone go into your house.”
I turn, exasperated. “That’s because I never ask anyone to come.”
“You could ask me,”
“You wouldn’t like it.”

It is said as an excuse, but twice thought, it is probably true. She wouldn’t like it because I wouldn’t like it, and there can be no emotion felt by people around me that I cannot feel. The air – the heavens – the fates – whatever it might be – would not allow it.

I grow weary of this thoughtful expression on her face but it remains solidly placed. “You don’t look old, but you sound old.”
I scoff. “What does that mean?”

“I met an old man once.” She says. “He was blind, and deaf in one ear. He talked about how he hated the world because of what it did to him, and how nobody could understand him because they hadn’t seen and heard what he had seen and heard. Everyone else was wrong and he was right. He talked like he owned the world but he was standing on a street corner with a sign, asking for money.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think you sound like him, and I don’t think you know it.”
“I think you think too much.”
“Maybe.”

I look down the street. It is gray, and the few trees are wet with raindrops. I can’t remember if it rained today or last night – it must have been recent.

“I’m late.” I say, and begin to walk again.
“Late for what?”

A sudden fit of frustration overtakes me – not at the girl, but at myself – because I can’t think of what to say to answer this question. I tell myself it’s not because I don’t have an answer. I have the answer. But she wouldn’t understand an answer I would give.

“Which house is yours?”

She points down the street. The house is sagging and creaking. Each vein in the window, each crack in the wood, represents a year – and there are many.

“It’s getting dark. You better go home.”

She straightens her raincoat, the only thing on the street with real color. “Bye!” She says easily, as if the past five minutes had not happened. They had – but they meant nothing. Nothing at all – her tone assures that. I breathe a sigh of relief as I see her walk down the street, towards her house. She is careful not to avoid puddles, I notice.

I wonder vaguely about that conversation, as I turn back towards the corner where my house stands. I do not dedicate much thought to it, as it may not be worth the trouble. She is inexperienced in life – she is young, as I was young once. She knows nothing of the trouble that people like her parents, perhaps, strive to hide from her bright eyes. Those eyes must stay bright.

The thought comes of its’ own free will. I try to take it back but I have heard it. Rather than wonder the possible meanings of this thought, however, I turn to watching the ground. There are worms on either side of the sidewalk, in the dirt and in the gutters. Then there is one on the sidewalk.

I have been walking at a steady pace and I have never been one to turn from my path – but here, I stop briefly. I see the worm, I know it is there.

A wild thought strikes me – I might name this worm. Just to humor myself, and perhaps the little girl, if I should run into her again. I put my hands in my pockets and stare down at this worm, thinking of names I know. I can think of none. The thought distresses me. I don’t know how long I stare at this worm, but it is a good long while. How can I not know a name? Just one...

It is silly. I am wasting my valuable time, and I have never wasted my time, ever. Stepping around the worm briskly, I continue my walk.

The Red Door

Note: I wrote this up in the mountains, on a boring afternoon when everybody else was reading. I probably did it in about ten minutes, just writing as I thought... so it's not polished or anything, but I kind of like it that way. Just something fun.


I was born in a little green house with a red door that stands between two large pine trees in a town called The Village Green. It isn’t really a village, at least not since I’ve known it. And the only thing green about it is my house – the other houses too, actually. The trees are brown, the grass is yellow, and when it snows – as it does this time of year – that snow is brownish-gray. Our houses spring up this way and that, growing – as it were – between the pines.

It’s a funny little place, if you happen to like places like that. Few visitors ever come, and if they do, it’s only to stare at our chipped little sign, smile, and make some comment about life and its’ irony. It’s true – I sit on the curb and watch them.

My older brother, when he comes to visit, likes to play that song, “Village Green Preservation Society” upon entering town. I think he does it as a cruel joke.

I’ve lived in this house my whole life. To other tenants of town, that’s not all that long. But a whole life can feel very long to the one living it. I often feel restless here. I go sit by the sign and watch the smiling people drive by in their fancy cars that reflect the sun so brightly it hurts to look at them. I think, if I owned a fancy car like that, I’d let it get a little dirty. That way people might look at it without going blind.

I often realize I think like a hick when I think like that. Then I realize it’s not really my fault. It’s because of the paint chipping off our sign; the trees that have been sick for God-knows how long but refuse to die and make room for new ones. It’s the yellow grass that rustles in the breeze and fools me into thinking there’s someone behind me. It’s the houses, so precociously green and perky it’d make anybody sick. It’s the red door – no... No, the red door is fine. It stands alone amongst the premeditated bores.

I realize, I like that door.

A car whizzes by and I can’t see who’s inside. There’s a barrier between me and the guy in there – something beyond a reflective window. The something written on the sign I sit by – it’s a lie. I hate this village – this torn, worn old picture of a secluded Shangri-la. It’s nothing more than wood, dried grass, and old faces that repeat sounds they heard a long way back, but can’t remember what the sounds mean. We speak a different language than the guy in that car, the faces and I.

I hate this town.

One morning a man stopped to take a picture of his wife by our ‘quaint’ sign. They said how it must be cute, the old married couples seeking solitude behind such old-fashioned ideals.

They didn’t really say that – I elaborated. I know they thought it, anyway.

I told them we weren’t all old, or old-fashioned. I said our town was small, but it was home. I said they hadn’t the right to make fun, because our lives were simple, yes, but we liked it that way.

I lied. But I didn’t tell them that.

They drove away with apologies, and I’ve accepted apologies, time and time again. I don’t know why I ask for them – I dislike this town more than anybody. But after all, the Village Green is my home... for now, anyway.

Someday I’ll leave this curb. Maybe I’ll paint the trees green... and the houses some other ghastly color, like yellow, just to spite them. Then, maybe, I’ll take down the sign. I’ll move to the city and set up the sign in my room, so every time I walk by, I can laugh.

It is a funny little place, after all.