The Antique Store

The sky was cool and grey, but humid enough to make anyone feel as though they were sinking. Summer is leaving it said, joyous innocence, playful romps, screams of laughter at a nine o'clock sunset will all be gone now. It will rain, I thought. 

We drove, through winding back roads, hilly and unkempt, patches of pavement drifting away into the corn fields that adorned either side. We had to no place to be, twenty minutes, a half an hour, the time was pleasantly wasted as we passed church after church, collecting our favorite signs to regale to the rest of civilization when we returned. One that read, "CH__CH What's missing? U R". Am I? Am I missing, not solely from this congregation but from life itself? So far out here, we don't belong. We know nothing of this rural kingdom, land of the forgotten, sad, small scope of time left to ravage rusty trackers with weeds. 
 

Peeling white paint and boarded up windows on a house that stands like a beacon on one corner of the four way intersection. Why did they leave? Was it something so pedestrian as financial troubles? Or did they tire of the occasional headlights that would pierce the sanctity of their humble bedroom late at night? Would this awaken their sandy eyes, or were they already wide awake, and this only brought them back to their senses? What did they dream of, eyes abright, in the 2am hour? Would they realize their mistakes, clawing at the bags under their eyes, staring at the limp mass that lay beside them? Would they realize like so many of us do that the future is so finite and ticks away always, even now, late at night, with half the world asleep and the other at time's feet. Oh, mercy, why did you leave? What made you leave? A ghost, a ghoul, an irritant, an annoyance, yourself, that raw sickening feeling that enough's enough, that if you don't see your reflection this instance, you'll cease to believe you exist at all?

We're close upon something now. The city appears, more of a town, with roads that jut out at acute angles and lead straight into ordinary bi-levels with signs begging passers by to purchase barn art. We're lost. We turn, again, back again, and pass a girl, too close to the street, her cobalt blue dress rippling in the wind behind her. Does she know that in this instant she is art? Does she know that as she waits, gripping one arm, stock still, that the wind has proclaimed her a goddess? 

It's near now. We come from a gravel road, long forgotten, with only fields and a small yellow house to offer any sort of company. The radio is only static, a persistent buzzing that takes the place of the previous slow 80s pop songs that arrived without an utterance into our car and have since been consigned to oblivion. We arrive upon a four lane highway, gushing with life as cars and trucks rumble past. Do they know what's so near to them? A forgotten land of farms and prairie prayers? Do those who live out in the barren plains utilize this modern death trap, or do they grope through the tall barley like they always have? Or are those ways of the past, ways of the dead? Is true survival the ability to conform? 

We pass through the highway and onto a road, sunny road strewn with brush and tree branches. It curves sharply, and for a moment we ponder our outcome on the other side. It passes, and suddenly on our right there it is, the Antique Mall. 

Acre after Acre of old treasures and somber remembrances. Grimy cherubs and hand penned grievances on the back of sepia toned photographs galore. Outside are sinks half cracked and doors piled up, sans doorknobs. Those are inside, crystal doorknobs and porcelain dolls and stained glass ripped from trendy 1970s South Chicago homes since demolished. Intricate wood fixtures and revolutionary war statues. Paintings of Jesus and Andrew Jackson. Water sodden records and posters under a light that twitches too much and bathroom that can't possibly entice a black plague ridden rat. Everywhere is something, something old and hanging and forgotten and up for sale, oh most certainly for sale. Intimate family portraits? For sale. Grandma's doll set? Yep. So much energy is here I know it. I'm uncomfortable. People died, their eyes glazed over, and the last thing they saw was that you're holding in your hands. "For Martha" scrolled on the picture of a young sailor, his eyes gleam as if saying buy me, buy me, give me new life, or as if daring you, daring you to take him home and see, see something that wasn't meant for your eyes. Only for Martha's, oh Martha, what happened? Was he yours? Was he gone, did he die before you saw this sepia smolder? Do people not belong to one another? Did you cry when you told him that? Why did you give him away to this capitalist hell? Why did you let him go?

I don't feel safe in here anymore. It's too dark, too full of spirits who just want to know where they are. Where am I? Why in all that is cosmically decadent have a I ended up here, at this space in my life? Why is my breathing getting short, why do those candles flicker so close to those dried lavender sprigs, why do all the statues seem to be turned towards me, price tags hung around their necks like mini nooses? We have to go, away from the tables, and the mothballs, and the busts of murdered musicians and poets, and away from the rugs dripping with stains of ungodly qualifications. Past the metal adornments, past the books with covers torn off, hanging limp by caged yellow lamps, past kitchsy signs and lawn art that signify the outside world again. Gone are the sound of saws and rough sandpaper scrapings. No birds now, but that's okay. I'm outside with the wind, oh the cool wind that prickles my skin with its peculiar cadence. 

We're gone now. Off, back home. The sky is grey again, the radio clear. We're almost home. We're almost home, but with something missing now. I left a piece of myself to sell at that antique store. I hope my thumping heart is locked away in caged animal splendor and put in the back until next spring.