we would decorate the garden shed with free posters from the video shop.
we killed the spiders and their eggs.
we would sit on plant pots.
we frowned when the toolbox was moved in.
we hammered a nail into the door and would use it as a coat hook.
we would drink milk and take solace.
later, the posters would come down.
my dad grew onions until he had so many onions that soon the onions were moved into the shed too. next, a lawn mower. a bicycle. a ladder. curtain rails and beach floats.
tonight it was dark and blustery. i thought i would seek solace in the shed once more. i lit my cigarette and stood in the open doorway. there isn’t much space anymore but i felt serene. a gust roared outside like the start of an old and powerful engine. i knew the door would close violently, but was certain that i was safe from the incoming door and allowed it to close me in. it rattled the doorframe and cancelled out the light. in the dark i remembered the nail. i nudged my head to the left and sure enough, my temple arrived at the rusty nail in the door. if i were a few inches that way the wind could have forced the nail right into my skull. ‘bloody onions’, i thought.