I began to wonder how often he was under me. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. Knives aren’t safe to just throw in the air.” “I’ll be spanked and grounded for a year!” Widemouth had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. “My parents will kill me!” I shouted, horrified that Mr. “Here are some things you can use to practice, before I start giving you lessons.”
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“I want to teach you how to juggle,” he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse. Widemouth’s face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment.
“I don’t know if I have enough imagination. I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. If it were that way you may as well just bounce on a real trampoline.” It wouldn’t be fun if it was only a short drop. I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. If you pretend hard enough you bounce back up like a feather. “I pretend that there is a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. We were on the second story of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle the drop was farther than two stories due to the incline. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground below. Widemouth darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper. I objected at first, as my parents had forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. “We have to go the the room at the end of this hallway,” he said. Widemouth slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. It’s a secret game.”Īfter my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. “We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you, because she can’t see us play it. “I have a new game we can play,” he said. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. Widemouth just looked at my books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained.
We didn’t do much during those first few days. “I don’t want your parents to see me because I’m afraid they won’t let us play anymore.” “I lay under your bed,” he later explained. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. They aren’t the same as having a real friend.” You can pet and feed them, almost like a real pet.” Widemouth stopped and gave me a puzzled look. “You look kind of like a Furby,” I said as he flipped through one of my books. In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body– his head, his eyes, his crooked ears– but his mouth was by far the largest. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with mono.
Boredom always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day, and these served the function of being my primary from of entertainment for the next few weeks.
It was horrible timing to be bed-ridden– we were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. The day after my fifth birthday (attended by my parents alone), I came down with a fever. In some ways it was a waste of space, but it was the only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour’s commute to my father’s place of work. There were a number of rooms that I didn’t see in the five months we resided there. It was a large structure, especially for a family of three. We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that Spring, but in my heart, I know they are real. But there is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. Most of these memories are unclear and pointless– chasing after another boy in the back yard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long.
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