SnohoStories

#motleyread

Photo taken at the Snohomish Bakery.

Dustin’s crayon never left the menu as his gaze followed Kate skimming through the dining room. He knew the routine. Soon the breathless couple would pass through the doorframe, in search of their efficient hostess. They arrived, as expected, and Dustin lowered his head to the art work. The dieters again.

He didn’t understand why they came here every night, assigning numbers to menu items, debating whether Yukon Gold potatoes should really count as pasta. The man in the blue shirt looked toward him, a guilty expression on his face. Dustin knew he would soon admit to eating a donut for breakfast. Then the woman with the long o’s and a’s would talk about her favorite donut, the one with chocolate frosting and cream inside. He wanted to shout, “Boston cream,” but he knew they wouldn’t hear.

He tipped over the glass of crayons just to see if they would notice. They were already discussing the texture of the perfect mushroom. Dustin tuned them out and sat up straight. The pretty blonde girl and her mother had just stepped into the room. The girl kept her nose in a book until Kate came to take their order.

That was when the mother asked about the ghost. The pretty girl loved the paranormal and Kate humored her with stories of misplaced items and unexplained events. The girl asked her mom if she could go look at the stairs, where a young girl her age had fallen to her death. It was said she haunted the restaurant, but Dustin had never seen her. He watched the little girl and her mom, and waited for his favorite part of the evening. Kate returned at the end of the meal, and the girl’s mother asked if she wanted dessert. Her face lit up as she ordered a slice of chocolate peanut butter pie.

He watched as she ate it, smiling at her mom, and he recognized the moment the smile changed from pleasure to discomfort. She couldn’t eat another bite. He didn’t blame her, of course. The slice was huge. He’d never made it through either, when his mom let him order it, and it was his favorite. When they grabbed their coats, he trailed after them.

The pair held hands and walked up the path between a mother and her angry son, who held a doll and refused to go home. The mothers shared a knowing glance as they crossed paths. He hoped, this time, he would make it to the car with girl and her mom. The angry little boy stomped his feet and his mom scolded, “Fine. But don’t blame me if you get hit by a car!”

Dustin’s crayon never left the menu as his gaze followed Kate skimming through the dining room. He knew the routine. Soon the breathless couple would pass through the doorframe, in search of their efficient hostess. They arrived, as expected, and Dustin lowered his head to the art work. The dieters again.

This story is loosely based on actual events that occurred while visiting the Cabbage Patch Restaurant in Snohomish. I wrote this for (and about) my beautiful daughter, the paranormal fan. I took the photo on the stairs at the Blackman House Museum.

for you
i am a black bird
diving
discarded remains
collected
consumed

for you
i am a wingless moth
plucked
dusted glitter
taken
torn

for you
i am a dormant seed
lost
crushed life
promised
forgotten

for me
you are a lidless eye
alone
frantic fingers
multiplied
infected

Immortal Snohomish creates and consumes of a place beyond place.  Existence is life and death and we are one with the river who gives and takes.  She licks at newborn calves, their mothers soon for slaughter.  She teases along her path of life, hording glacial secrets in seasons.  She breathes passion through dens of play and slows her gait in wonder at the mill, where blood and sap converge our living death.  Mourning whistles from mill and rail cannot be silenced.

In this valley, moon and sun hold morning court over swans unsheltered in fields of decay.  Along the river, we know that to live, there must be death.  We live among the dead and celebrate together.  The spirits are many and we offer respect for lives known only through wisps of fading grays, snapshots in clinking glass and tarnished silver noise.

Neither haunted, nor possessed, but endowed with intelligences of ages, our buildings sweat soul and invite creation from untethered minds.  To be here, you simply have to be.  Once you are, you will find meaning.

Jeffrey’s Story