Relics (House of Stolen Light)
by Ryan P. Kinney
When I pull up in my battle-scarred truck
That old song is playing on the radio
Whose lyrics I have misheard and, hell…
“Who did that **** song, anyways?”
Nonetheless, of what I do hear through the cracks and pops,
It definitely suits this house
It’s an old run down bi-level, with a winding porch
And more windows than walls
But the windows are heavily tinted and shades are all half drawn
The windows do not let the light into the home,
But rather steal it, consume it into the darkness, never to be seen again
How many neighborhood rumors revolved around this home?
For how long has it been whispered that THIS is THAT haunted house?
Or this is where that one creepy guy did that one horrific thing?
Or even that series of horrific things?
Did the boogie man originate here?
Inside the darkness of that house, stealing the sunshine from precocious little boys and girls
Finally freed from the confines of scholastic imprisonment
Until eventually their days of play started getting shorter
And they return to their nine months of confinement
With no one to blame but the invisible tenant of that ever decaying, but seemingly indestructible and insurmountable home
I imagine a stone in my hand
To be thrown into this house of glass
I picture it not breaking the glass so much as piercing a pool of darkness, that ripples across the entire house, melting each window and finally freeing everyone’s abducted childhoods
I see the sunlight exploding from the foundation
The cracked, brown leaves in every dead, broken tree suddenly springing to life and filling with green
Years of devoured Frisbees, kites, and baseballs launching into the air from every crevice
And then, I think, maybe appearances can be deceiving
Maybe, this house is not so much the spooky old ruin
But rather a cracked and worn old photo album
Housing years of relics of lives spent well and with love
Love that our generation could not possibly fathom
Devoid of the electronic means of expressing and spreading it
How many boys turned men turned soldiers here?
How many mothers turned grandmothers, turned cherished memories?
How many years were cried over scrapped knees and first loves?
Or spent on lover’s lanes, backyard barbeques, and drunken sibling brawls?
Is that old tire finally getting its deserved rest from someone’s swing, or off the wheels of a well-loved ancestor to my vehicle?
Who’s lives and legends were parked in this dusty driveway?
Who’s footprints am I standing in right now?
Maybe those dark windows never really robbed the light
But, rather were meant to hold it in for the love growing inside
So that anyone within would always feel its warmth and brightness
And anytime someone left that house, they returned that light to the world in kind
Richer and brighter than it ever would have been had it not spent its time within those walls
Who are you, oh house of stolen light?
What secrets do you hold?
How many childhoods were used up here, either stolen or spent fully?
What lives have you had?
What adventures can you tell me?
I smile.
“This is gonna be fun.”
As I kick in the front door
