Postcard…

Postcard from the House of Melatonin printed on Psychedelic Watermarked Paper 

By Ignacio Fitzsimons

When we were, what, four years old? Our mother was driving us to kindergarten down a muddy road and we ended up stuck in a giant ditch. The impact made the dust inside the cabin break loose and float, a sunbeam shining through. We contemplated it timelessly until our mother's concerned glance brought us back to the adrenaline of the moment. The fear that followed had our wrists in pain because they had absorbed the impact.

When we were six years old, we would spend our afternoons at our grandparents' house on the edge of town. The country road was lined on either side by trees, and the fields were golden. We would hop across a dry ditch and inspect the ground beneath the treetops for fallen nests. One afternoon, we found one with three eggs in it! What did Grandma say about our booty? She suggested heating the pan, so we ran off, but we tripped, and the eggs broke, and we never really loved her again.

Remember when you and I moved to the pink neighborhood? All the houses were the same, painted pink except for a strip of gray at the bottom. We used to think that gray was a good choice because it kept the raindrops from staining the wall when they hit the dirt. However, it was an ugly shade of gray. The pink was pretty. The streets in the neighborhood were not laid out in straight lines. Instead, the streets were curvy, giving the area a better look. 

We used to walk to school in the mornings and walk home for lunch, our stomachs in sync with the quiet of our bathroom. Then, we would walk back to school for the afternoon shift and return home around six in the evening. Our brother's blue bicycle would become a blessing years later when he left to make a living.. In the winter, our hands would freeze, and we would ride with our hands in our pockets or regret punching holes in our wool gloves. 

The curly-haired girl, our first crush. We were too shy to get up from the sidewalk and talk to her as she walked by. Did we finally do it? I think so, and she told us she had a boyfriend. How many times did we rehearse that

declaration of love as we crossed the wooden beams of what would become the second floor of our pink house? Mom had won the lottery, remember? Our home was about to become the highest in the neighborhood.

Video games became our best friend when nightclub courtship proved just too daunting for us. We didn't know what to say when dancing with a girl. We didn't even know how to have fun with the boys. We learned to enjoy the intimacy of our bedroom. Our old TV and the rainy nights when blocked porn channels would trip and undress for our pubescent pleasures. 

Our first girlfriend. The morning we met and the fear that our flirting strategy had collateral damage. The old man we made fun of just to look cool, the axe murderer we didn't know existed. We were terrified but kept our coolness intact. She was beautiful, and her teeth weren't feral like ours. Meeting her parents for the first time. She was rich, and so we found out we were poor. The nights we hid behind her bedroom closet while her father hunted for us? The nights we spent on a mattress on the floor, getting to know one another, ascending into thicker layers of adulthood. 

I know what you've been through because I was we, and we are still around.

What more can I tell you to make you understand that we live together in the house of melatonin? This is our postcard. This is our psychedelic watermark.