The happy place

In the moss-green kitchen, there’s a fire burning in the fireplace. I am sitting by the bardisk with a beer and my book, pretending that I’m at some hotel bar,

let’s write it like this, because for reasons unknown, my caches have been corrupted, and I’ve invalidated them, meaning old truths must be reexamined with the latest patch set I’ve painstakingly installed (this is a metaphor) and then rebooted,

An example:

When we were young, my sister said the neighbour boy once threw a machete at his younger siblings

That he killed kittens

That he broke her arm on purpose with his mountainbike

That he was wild

And it never occurred to me to question that even though I knew him and spent most days playing with him and we were true friends

I never saw him do anything remotely like that, the strangest thing was that he took tea water straight from the tap

And didn’t like to wear socks

it’s true I never wanted to anger him, but that means little; I never wanted to anger anyone…

Why did I trust her so blindly?

It’s not just something she said as a child letting her wild imagination loose,

She was adult she maintained all these things

And I as an adult took her words for truth even though I’d never seen anything like that

Why hasn’t it occurred for me until now to question this?

Isn’t that strange?

Isn’t it?