No subject

[Patrick Hall]

I'm so glad, truly, that you would like to leave me locked in your closet
while your friends come over.  I like to stay there, in the dark in the
cool dark. It's comforting. I know they'll never see me. It's so much
easier there in the closet, with the door locked tight. And it was even
better when you finally left the room yourself (I could hear the door
shutting, quietly, but I could hear it from inside the closet - I'm good at
listening).
Finally, I was alone again.
I heard a story once, that if you go into a place that's truly, truly dark,
like a mine, or the bottom of the ocean, that you go blind. Just because,
your eyes can handle the darkness.
It was dark in your closet. But it wasn't _that_ dark. There was a little
of the dusty dim venetian blind light, and it snuck in under the crack of
the door, and it lit up your sock. Or was it your underwear? Like I said,
it wasn't _that_ dark, but it was dark.
I stayed there for a long time, a  long time, with  your clothing hanging
all around my head. Polyester dresses, and that nylon skirt, I could tell
which one it was by the zippy nylon sound. That was odd, because skirts
don't have zippers.
 I amused myself by wondering what your friends looked like. Well, I guess
they look like you. A lot of your friends look a lot like you. One of your
friends told you (in the special secret code you have) that it would be a
good idea to lock me in the closet. After all, if your friends saw me, who
knew what could happen? She thought I didn't know what she was saying in
the secret code, but she was wrong. I knew. I'm good at listening.
So it was into the closet for me.
So here I am, in your closet. The only thing I miss, really, are the trees
and the bugs. The trees, because I've always thought green is nice, and
trees have so many shades of green and against the blue sky, well...
There's nothing nicer than a green tree waving against a blue sky.
As for the bugs, they make me feel better about myself. Mainly, because
they  nothing to do with you. I've been reading this book called 'life on a
little known planet.' It's about bugs. And the title is good you know,
because that's why bugs are good. They have  _nothing_  to do with me. Or
you. Or anybody. I mean sure they carry lyme's disease and eat tomatoes and
killed one fourth of europe during the black plague, but, when you  look at
a bug, I mean really  look at a bug, there's no point of reference. It's an
outsider. It has nothing to do with you. It has no interest in you. And
confronted with such a thing, isn't it easy to forget yourself?  And that's
all anybody ever really needs, to forget himself. It's not an easy thing to
do. Bugs help.
So, sitting, stuck in your closet, I missed the bugs, and the trees, and
listened to the secret code you and your friends were mumbling in out in
the parlor. And even tho the dusty dim venetian blind light could sneak in
under the closet door and light up your clothing, the murmurings of you and
your friends were too far out beyond the closet door, out beyond the parlor
door, out beyond the reach of my good hearing. Just too far, and the sound
of your secret code became incomprehensible even to me, even to my sharp
ears, and finally I was alone, finally I was alone, and the murmurings, I
suppose they were yours, blurred into the song of a cicada, or a dizzy
cricket, or a crooked wandering grasshopper.
And I sighed in relief.



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