The old, dusty, worn-down
shack
was inviting to a couple of adventurers. It looked like it had been
condemned. The old wood was wilted and cracking. It was the color of
rusted night. A broken glass window next to what used to be the
door, shone in the dying sun. it reflected hues of reds, bright yellows, and oranges. We
walked up to the shack on a drought-stricken, dirt path. Dust kicked up all around us. It looked like a tiny
dust storm.
The dust storm around us caused a whooshing sound. It was calm, and had
gentle qualities about it. We reached the old steps of the beaten-up
shack and went on.
The creaky, unstable steps held, yet buckled under
our weight. The dusty rail groaned as it aided us to our destination.
Through the old, abandoned doorway, we stepped, to hear
birds. Chirp chirp, whistle whistle. tweet tweet. Once inside the dark
room, our eyes began to adjust to the darkness. The smell was
unforgettable. It was breathtaking. It smelled of damp wood and dirt.
Like earthworms and mothballs. My throat became dry, as dust climbed
slowly into my mouth. We walked through a low-hanging doorway to our
right.
This room smelled as though it might have been used as a kitchen.
Deep in my mind, I pulled memories from childhood. Coming downstairs to
breakfast. Each step brought me closer. Each step another breath. And
each breath a whiff of soft, white bread, transforming, melting, into
lightly, browned, sandy toast. Or sizzling eggs, that produced a sharp
grease odor. Or frying bacon. Crackling and popping. Creating the smell
of home. An unattainable stale breeze. But this wasn't mother's kitchen,
and there was no breakfast cooking. the smells of the previous trip
down memory lane, quickly disappeared, leaving the damp, stale, mothball
odor.
We walked out of the kitchen and made our way slowly into what
might have been the
living room. A big
picture window
stared silently, lonely, at us. One end was injured with a crack, that
allowed a slight breeze to come in. The breeze filled my lungs and crept
up my nose. It tasted of sweet fall, and dying grass. He kicked at a
rusted box on the floor which enlivened dirt and dust. It began to dance
and move as it tickled my nose. Not thinking, I breathed in deeply,
taking in some dust. It tasted dry, and sour, somewhat chalky. I sneezed
violently freeing my lungs from the sticky, frantic dust.
Snot
and spit came with the liberation. My mouth now tasted of death. I
brought forth from my pocket a buttery, caramel Worther's Original, that
my Grandpa had given me. I popped it into my mouth and was instantly
relieved. The dust was gone and sweet richness now replaced it.
The
living room was the last room. There must have been an out house out
back for taking care of business. We made our way out of the little,
bright living room. I nudged the wall on my way out and found that the
surface was smooth, yet bumpy in some places. It was chalky from being
cover in dust. The walls were covered in a cheap, dull,
wall-paper.
It had little red triangles all over it. I rubbed my hand steadily over
it. The lumps had been created by not smoothing the surface underneath.
In some spots there was no wall-paper.
My fascination quickly left and
soon I did also. We walked out of the abandoned door, and as we left,
out of who knows what instinct, I reached up over my head and was
snagged by a sticky, silky, spider web. It stuck to my fingers and hung
there. Stringy, swaying in the breeze of the night. We walked out into
the fading sunlight, and rejoiced. We then made our way back through the
dust trail and then on into the night.
