This is story told again and again and again [for Annie]

  The place is always Beulah, Michigan. The season changes, and so does the cast. Our roles change. The corn on the cob, and the warm beer, never do. It’s a white clapboard house. With a front porch and a weathered roof. It sits next to the little lake next to the big Lake Michigan. There is a worn-out piano in the corner. On it, we don’t play Bach or Beethoven. Just a solemn blues scale, pounding repeated chords, and the occasional Debussy. There is an unfinished attic, leaning, wood molted. The fridge is yellowing. The table cloth is colorful. The yard is overgrown, with lawn furniture put in the most perfect places. There’s a small grill, used frequently for any type of cylindrical meat. 

We are loud in our silent house. We are like pigs always squealing. The rotating cast dances around us in sweet succession, and some characters never change. The doors lock, so the ugly blond men of the world can’t scold our piano playing, or stomping feet. When we do go out, we are unkillable, untouchable roaches that scurry about in sweet flickers. Steal bread from the big grocery, and buy eggs from the small one. On hot days, we eat peaches on warm pebbles and take fairies out to islands. Get hands dirty with smoked fish. Wade into cool, clear water that warps the outlines of our legs. 

For months, I’ll go not thinking of this tale and place, and then it’ll sting me awake again. In that little town we are held living off our hands and goodwill. In this alwaysplace and alwaystime, we are jesters, losers, riflemen and fishermen. Epic, American Royalty. Well-suited in a place between our two coasts. Well suited in our once-found, and always-there, in-between. 

There’s thousands of versions of this story, and one day, my sweet Roach, one will come true, even for just a short while. Our beautiful Buelah house will always be held as a sweet pocket in my mind, next to you, the sunrise over Interlochen lake, and the sound of Sheharezade.