I am back in the old house, sat in the garden on a white chair. I am barely awake and a cigarette fizzes between my fingertips, turning into a long column of ash.
I stayed away from this house for over two years. I stayed away for lots of reasons. When people ask me why, I say ‘too many memories’ and they know not to press me for details. What an excuse! ‘Too many memories’. How tragic. How mysterious. A house as full as a brain, abandoned for knowing too much.
Memories are the stuff we are made of. It is impossible to have too many of them.
I sit on this white chair, and the house nudges my seahorse brain. All the candles of my mind are lit.
My cigarette burns out.