a story about a boy who finds his home. transcription* below. (oil on masonite)
*The numbers correspond with each double spread.
2. My earliest memory of my house was my parents’ refusal to look me in the eyes after I told them I wanted to wear a suit to church instead of a dress.
3. He found me on the bridge, looking over the edge. I wasn’t going to jump – I had only been wondering what it would be like to fly. I still wonder how many people have jumped off bridges trying to fly away.
4. He called them Nibs, Tootles, Slightly, Curly, Twin One and Twin Two. I told him to call me Wendell, and he smiled something crooked and clinquant. Welcome to Neverland, he said.
5. They were my family. We chopped off each other’s hair and threw them in the sky like fairy dust. He taught us to dance around makeshift fires and gave us unripe berries to eat to freeze time, or at least freeze ourselves in that time forever before the chemicals in our bloodstream would change our voices and give us breasts. Every sunset meant another day had gone, so at dusk we all sang to the smoggy sunsets in a fierce defiance of the universe.
6. I was happy.
7. He found them first, the missing posters. The posters that had a picture of me in frills and a skirt and hair that touched my shoulders. I didn’t look at them too closely -- didn’t want to see little Wendy staring at me, a reflection distorted in ink and layers of time. But he stared at the text for a long time, and then pointed out one word. That night, he told me to go home and walked me there in the dark, just us.
8. My parents opened the door after one knock, and by the time I escaped from their embrace for a breath of air, Peter disappeared.
9. He called us the Lost Boys, but I had never actually felt lost with them. It’s funny though; only when I felt my dad’s tears on my face had I realized that then, I was truly found.