Derek Chen (17)
Untamed
It was an untamed lot, placed providentially in the midst of a picture-perfect suburban paradise of pruned bushes and groomed gardens, a house tucked away from sight behind four-foot tall weeds and vines that criss-crossed hungrily over its resigned body. You could make out an ancient car if you squinted, tucked next to the garage. Paint was peeling from its antique frame, faded brown reminiscent of the dirt path it was rested on, leading into what could have been the gaping maw of the forest ready to consume its secrets and return it to the earth it had sprung from. It was as if nature had come to claim its right to death and rebirth, to grow over that which had been left behind and to return that which had been cut away back to its original, primal richness.
What I remember most prominently about it, however, was the boat in the driveway, a vessel of endless blue surrounded by a square sea of green, yet still with its nose in the air, carrying itself haughtily above weeds and earth. It seemed to me like a grandparent with stories to tell, trying to paint a picture of sunrise over the water armed with only black and white ink, insistent with meanings and morals that had been learned from young foolishness and which consistently fell on indifferent ears. I certainly would not have listened for long; my discovery of the boat coincided with the time when I began walking home from school more often than not, when I began to wander aimlessly in search of places from my childhood that no longer existed in their original forms, when I began looking for providence somewhere within the three-point-four miles from my town to the next.
I remember wondering who had left the boat behind, who had decided to put it away for a faraway day when the sea would call out to them again, who had left the pristine shell to drown on land. I remember wondering who had parked the car for the last time, who had locked the doors to the house and looked over it with a sad smile, promising to return after the hard times were over and to visit when they were able. I remember wondering who had forgotten about it all. I wondered if it all felt abandoned, betrayed in the greatest way possible.
But sometimes, the light would find its way wanly through the trees and weeds and rest, exhausted, on the boat’s gentle bow, and I could only imagine that it was smiling, the soft shading of its body reminiscent of the waves which once carried it out to sea with the silver-gold of sunset tucked away within their mysterious folds. “But you are young,” it seemed to tell me after recounting a winding journey through wind and storm. “Go out to the open ocean and play, and don’t think too much about it. And think of me when you’re away, when you’re out on the water, would you?” I could swear that the windows of the house blinked from beneath the vines, reaching out with its flowering weeds to caress the world in the only way it knew how to, the old paint ready to sink back into the ground and be free from the still life suburbia it had grown to resent.
But now the grass has been cut, the car, pulled out onto the driveway; and there is an air of something lost with the boat, which has disappeared, and which, I hope, has gone off to sea once again.
Derek Chen is currently a junior in high school. He spends his days eating, procrastinating, and sleeping.
Untamed
It was an untamed lot, placed providentially in the midst of a picture-perfect suburban paradise of pruned bushes and groomed gardens, a house tucked away from sight behind four-foot tall weeds and vines that criss-crossed hungrily over its resigned body. You could make out an ancient car if you squinted, tucked next to the garage. Paint was peeling from its antique frame, faded brown reminiscent of the dirt path it was rested on, leading into what could have been the gaping maw of the forest ready to consume its secrets and return it to the earth it had sprung from. It was as if nature had come to claim its right to death and rebirth, to grow over that which had been left behind and to return that which had been cut away back to its original, primal richness.
What I remember most prominently about it, however, was the boat in the driveway, a vessel of endless blue surrounded by a square sea of green, yet still with its nose in the air, carrying itself haughtily above weeds and earth. It seemed to me like a grandparent with stories to tell, trying to paint a picture of sunrise over the water armed with only black and white ink, insistent with meanings and morals that had been learned from young foolishness and which consistently fell on indifferent ears. I certainly would not have listened for long; my discovery of the boat coincided with the time when I began walking home from school more often than not, when I began to wander aimlessly in search of places from my childhood that no longer existed in their original forms, when I began looking for providence somewhere within the three-point-four miles from my town to the next.
I remember wondering who had left the boat behind, who had decided to put it away for a faraway day when the sea would call out to them again, who had left the pristine shell to drown on land. I remember wondering who had parked the car for the last time, who had locked the doors to the house and looked over it with a sad smile, promising to return after the hard times were over and to visit when they were able. I remember wondering who had forgotten about it all. I wondered if it all felt abandoned, betrayed in the greatest way possible.
But sometimes, the light would find its way wanly through the trees and weeds and rest, exhausted, on the boat’s gentle bow, and I could only imagine that it was smiling, the soft shading of its body reminiscent of the waves which once carried it out to sea with the silver-gold of sunset tucked away within their mysterious folds. “But you are young,” it seemed to tell me after recounting a winding journey through wind and storm. “Go out to the open ocean and play, and don’t think too much about it. And think of me when you’re away, when you’re out on the water, would you?” I could swear that the windows of the house blinked from beneath the vines, reaching out with its flowering weeds to caress the world in the only way it knew how to, the old paint ready to sink back into the ground and be free from the still life suburbia it had grown to resent.
But now the grass has been cut, the car, pulled out onto the driveway; and there is an air of something lost with the boat, which has disappeared, and which, I hope, has gone off to sea once again.
Derek Chen is currently a junior in high school. He spends his days eating, procrastinating, and sleeping.