Dear Patio,
You never came to be. But the strength of your hold in my imagination is as if I had – actually – cleared out the space behind the garage and had laid the bricks down with my two young but strong hands. As if we had actually sat on your narrow but strong shoulders and supped. Or drank. Or talked. As if music had, actually, been piped from speakers to caress the air above your head.
Ah, well. It was a first house. A practice place. A place to learn from mistakes and choose a paint color that made the dining room look like an ice cream parlor and follow an exterminator/heating specialist/plumber around with clenched teeth saying “how bad is it?” It was a place to rip out the carpet drenched with cat and rat piss and pause on the front steps pulling fresh air into clogged lungs and gaze out behind the garage to say, “soon, one day.” There is something important about the dreams that get let go. Even the simple ones. Even the small ones. Released like balloons. Or the dregs of a cup you are done drinking from.
And so if you didn’t come to be, Patio, the dream of you was important as well. Please know that.
-e.