There is a window in my room that opens up onto a big field of yellow dead grass. Usually there is nothing alive there except the wind. I open my window to let the cold or the heat or the fresh in and nothing but that is what greets me. The sof speak of the see-through slow-poke morning air. Not quite wind. But this morning there is a dark spot in the high weeds, a rustling, a fun sort of urgency there, maybe digging but for what. I open the window and in comes the face lick cool. It changes the tenseness of my body. I shift my weight and watch the shadow of the rustling thing. I can see ears now, a long body.
I can always hear the sounds of the city moving, cars coming closer and going farther away in a symphony of guestures that cancel each other out in a constant flush hum. I can hear birds, too, almost always. They are not in the field where there is nothing to perch on, but there are trees I can see them from my window. The field shadow with the ears is running now. Not at a chase but. Not at a saunter but. The way it would run if it had a playmate but. It is alone. It is running with the wish of a playmate.
I used to set up my room like a library and, when I was ready for patrons, beg my sister to visit, to check out books. I would bribe her with my share of the Oreos. When I tired of Library I moved on to Store, my currency hand-drawn. When I tired of Store I made a classroom in the basement, printer paper taped to the sliding glass door as a whiteboard that my reluctant sister couldn’t read from the desk.
I tried a few times to create my own language. I figured it couldn’t be so hard. A system of 26 symbols. A combination of symbols to make a sound for every object, every feeling, every piece of each of our selves. It would take time but seemed doable.
I got bored when I couldn’t come up with words that sounded beautiful to me. I suppose I’ve always stopped myself a little short.