No Place Like Home

No Place Like Home

By M. F. B. Porter

I’m half asleep, lying on my side.  The hard wooden boards of my tree house are imprinting their rough pattern on my bare legs, dirtying my favorite outfit- red and white checkered over-alls with a fluorescent crimson rose in the direct middle of my shirt.

My favorite color is red, and I wish I had shoes to match, but I am stuck with my old white sneakers that glow purple when I step too hard on the sidewalk.  I hide away in my tree house, afraid to go back inside, afraid of what my mother would say about me staying outside for hours and hours.  The truth is, I have fun in my backyard.  It’s a marvelous jungle, a flourishing garden, a wondrous palace.  My favorite is the emerging stream that I can see only part of, where the enormous perimeter has been breached.  Or, perhaps the small, cozy castle made of old splintering wood behind the cover of idle, weary trees.  Or maybe it’s the overflowing meadow of honeysuckles, enclosed behind my magnificent castle.  No, I know what it has to be; the long, narrow stone pathway underneath hundreds of budding, psychedelic plants and bushes, that lead to an opaque, decaying gate, which seems to be miles and miles away when I am exploring.  There are more flowers than stars in the sky, each one a different color of the rainbow, a large number of them taller than my slim arms can ever dream to reach.  It is my own land of magic and adventure; just like in the storybook my mother would read to me every so often.  I twist and turn my body every which way, trying to get comfortable, eventually coming to the conclusion that it’s useless.

In my discomfort, I peer up at the faded burgundy roof of my play house, and through a small peep hole, I see the blue sky, with a hint of gold from the sleepy sun, sinking in the late sky.  One day, I will be able to read long books, all by myself, so I won't have to endure my mother’s rapid, anxious tone, like she would just like to be finished already.  I have yet to understand the meaning in the story; and I think on it every day, even if just for a split second to remind myself to think on it harder tomorrow.

I lay here on the rough wood, pondering this very question, when I hear my mother slide the transparent door open.  She steps out of the house and calls my name excitedly, and that is when I see the medium sized box in her hands.  At first, I wonder if I should respond, in case her purpose is to make me come inside. But I decide that I should answer her call, so she doesn’t worry.  I peep my head out of the window and catch her attention.

“You scared the living daylights out of me.”  She says with her hand balled in a fist against her waist, the other hand still gripping the silver box.  “I have something for you.”  Her eyes glaze over, as if looking back at a far off memory.  

“A surprise?”  I ask, now climbing down the narrow wooden steps, jumping instead of taking the last four.  I run to her so fast I could be flying.  I dash passed tall grass, diving from small yet friendly insects, and flutter over the small weeds underneath my feet, until I finally reach my mother and the silver box.  I wrap my arms around my mother’s leg, not taking my eyes off of the box for a second.  She puts her hand on my back and says in her busy voice-

“A surprise.”  She said, setting the box in my outstretched hands.   She smirks at me as if she wishes she could say something else, but doesn't.  I grin back at her and she crouches down to my level to watch me open the box.  I tear the silver paper off as quickly as I can.  In the absence of the wrapping, the slightly heavy brown box looks sad.  I look up at my mother with a pleading look, to open it quickly for me.  She looks at me funny for a moment before I ask if she will.  She whips out her key, lacerating the top of the box.  I jump up and down, clapping my hands, waiting anxiously for her to show me the contents.  I reach forward and tug away the flaps, to see the most beautiful pair of red, shimmering shoes with a strap and round black button.  They glow as I stare at them for just a moment, and then I pull them out of the box, one shoe in each hand.  I tap my mother’s hand with my elbow to ask her to help me put them on.  I sit down and hand her one shoe.  She unties my plain sneaker, sliding it off, and replaces it with the magnificent ruby shoe, repeating for the other.  I stand up a little too quickly, and she grabs me just above my elbow to steady me.  I hug her leg, and take off down into the jungle.  Even though I’m still running, I look back to the sound of the sliding door being closed.  My daddy is hugging Mommy tightly in his arms, giving her a short kiss on her cheek.  I wave at them, but daddy doesn’t see me. I think mommy does, but she doesn’t wave, and I don’t look again.

The days start to pass by so quickly, and I spend all of them exploring.  After what seems like just a few afternoons, I have completed all of the quests I’ve assigned to myself in very good time, embellishing the experiences when explaining them to my mother, day after day.

Today, I rediscover the stone road that follows the path of the river, coming to a giant wall.  I remember the tune of a song that sounds faintly familiar, and I begin to hum and skip down the dull silver stone pathway.  Every single detail in the entire place is so intricate and detailed and beautiful, I am determined not to close my eyes in fear of missing it all.  But I do blink, and then I find myself with a scraped knee and face, lying in the dirt; but before I can pull myself up, I’m tumbling down the hill hidden in the gap of the wall.  

I don’t know how to stop, so I hold my breath.  I splash into the water, dunking my entire body into the once scenic river that is now so cold and unforgiving.  It is flowing faster than I had thought, and it sweeps me down along it’s path, spattering water over my face and in my eyes.  I finally grab ahold of an old branch sprouting out of the earth.  I hold on to it for a moment, hoping that it’s rooted.  I pull myself roughly up onto the moist dirt, my legs still in the water.  I feel them start to numb from the ice cold water, and I can’t feel my feet any longer.  I work up the strength to drag up my feet, and my heart sinks miserably as I see they are bare.  In a panic, I look down and scan the river a short way, and see my shimmering shoes bobbing and floating beyond my reach.  I can’t tell if the wetness on my face is river water or tears, but I hear sobbing and I can’t make myself stop.

I hear my father’s heavy steps against the soft ground, and know he is coming for me, the sound ending abruptly next to my ear. The next thing I realize, I’m up in his arms walking back to my hysteric mother.  I cry scratchily.

“My red shoes, you have to go get them!”  His silence enhances my frantic cries.  He carries me for another short moment before my mother takes me out of his arms, cradling me in hers.  “Mommy, my ruby shoes are lost.”  I point down at my feet.  She gives me an empty look with her eyes, and frowns.  She says nothing, but gives me a quick kiss on my forehead, rubbing my cut cheek.  She lays me down somewhere dry and soft, and I begin to quickly drift into a dream.

When I awake, the cuts on my cheek and knee have been bandaged, and I am lying on my embroidered baby blanket, sprawled out on the bare floor. I jump off the soft blanket, and I run to stand at the glass sliding door.  My mother stands next to me.

“Mommy, why did they have to be taken away?”  I ask honestly.  She crosses her arms and shakes her head, pursing her lips.

“Because, that’s the way life is.”  She says.  I frown, mimicking her posture.

“I don’t understand.”  I reply, grudgingly.  I look out the window, and small snowflakes begin to spin and twist in unpredictable directions, eventually landing on the cold ground.  “Is that how life is with everything?”  I ask.  She frowns solemnly and shrugs her shoulders, unresponsively.  “Does that make me bad luck?”  I add on, curiously.  She scoffs.

“It means you are just like everybody else.”  She looks down at me with bored eyes.  “They’re just shoes.  Sometimes we lose things to be taught a lesson.”  She says.  

"What's the lesson?" I want to know, but she's already walking away. If she heard me, she didn't answer. So I nod, and then begin to cry when she turns her attention to something else.  I hold my hand to the window and look at the yard.  Just a yard.  It couldn’t be anything else.  It’s just snow and ice, gray and absent of sun.  I hear my dad call my mother’s name.

“Everything is packed!  It’s time to go!  Are you coming?  Let’s go!”  My father’s voice roars.  My mother calls back.

“We’re coming!”  She tugs at my dress shoulder.  “Come on, we need to go.”  I take one last glance out the glass door, and cry for the loss.  I step away from the window slowly and observe the empty shell of a house.  It isn’t mine anymore.  It was never really mine.  My mom tugs at my dress sleeve again, towing me along, down the stairs and out the open door, locking it behind us.