Green Wind

I can remember my Mom, Justin and I in the living room facing the front door. The addition, which would drastically change the home I grew up in is not yet built. There is no stairway to the attic in this room, as there is now. Dark green carpet is under our feet.

As I remember this, my mind plays with what I remember, embedding a computer desk that did not exist yet, painting the walks, removing the furniture that existed then. It hides them from me. I remember an ugly, but comfortable chair. It might have been striped, green or brown, but it is so faded, ghostly, I can't make it out.

Normally, at this time Justin and I would be in bed, but Mom has let us stay up. The weather is not just bad, but terrifying. Even with the shades drawn you can hear the windows rattle agains the wind and you can see the strange light leak out from around the edges. We are up to see my Dad home. I don't really have an awareness why, but I am happy to have my bedtime delayed. As I look back I wonder if my Mom didn't want to be alone waiting, or if she thought it would be nice for us to greet my Dad, or if it was for some other reason. It has become as faded as the chair.

We open the front door. It sticks a little because of the moisture and thick paint. As it pulls inward you can see something is not right on the windowed porch. Running the complete width of the front of our house is a small completely windowed room. What strikes me as being wrong first is the color, the lighting. It is evening and there is a storm, but instead of a dull grey , bright green light fills the space. It is carried on ethereal wind.

Outside the trees bend and leaves flee from the unnatural. You could see branches and twigs and small bits of liter scraping from left to right, toward the train track at the end of the street. Nothing looked like it was supposed to,it was running chaotic and shaded wrong. My dad wasn't just coming home from work, he was coming in from the alien.

We watched and waited. I can see him walking toward the front door of the house. His dark hair is blown in the wind. I don't think he has a beard, but I may be replacing his face with pictures I have seen. His glasses have dark thick rims. We are happy to see him, but as he walks in the door, my memory scatters, caught in a green wind.