Saturday, April 28, 2012

the borders of domesticity

The previous night, after dinner, we had asked for stories while the adults clicked dominoes together. Had the alligators moved inland? Were there new children in the neighborhood? Had anyone gone missing? Who was the local crazy person? Because we knew that bad things could hide in the woods, and we wanted to make sure that our discovery wouldn't be half-rotten and haunt our dreams forevermore. We didn't really think anything was wrong, and I wasn't sure they would tell us even if it was, but we knew it was good to ask, especially to make sure about the alligators. Maybe they don't live in the woods. Maybe they do. I wanted to be absolutely certain that what looked like a mossy log really was a mossy log.

The Prague cemetery / Umberto Eco