Dead Porcupine Road

when i was 7 or 8, we had a babysitter for one summer who lived about 2 miles out of town, on the lake. we drove there every morning, to pick her up, and every afternoon, to drop her off.

one day, my brother and i noticed that there was a dead porcupine on one of the roads we passed everyday. it became a sick little game we'd play, we were the car-wreck-people who couldn't help but look at it, and it's state of decay, every day. there was a sense of forboding about it, we were sure that one day, it'd have been removed by someone, and we'd have nothing to look forward to, and it'd have disappeared overnight, leaving us wondering forever whatever happened to it.

but it didn't. it was there all summer long. we watched for it, every day. it was there, every day. sometimes, we'd miss it, and look harder for it, the next time we passed. almost breathing a sigh of relief, because it was still there. it always was, until eventually, it was just a stain.

(i could see this story going several routes at this point, here they are:

scenario #1) "this is how some people are, in our lives. some people we watch for, and wait for. some good people are always in danger of disappearing, and we wait for that. some part of us always expects that person to disappear, and is grateful for every time they look up to see them still there. those are the people that leave stains, those are the ones that, even after the stain fades, we will always have a memory of, to fall back on."

scenario #2) "in a way, that dead porcupine represents the way that all of my memories have been made. look at it this way... when you look for them, they're there. you might drive past them on occasions, forgetting to take the time to notice them there. but the next time you call upon them, they come up. slightly more decomposed, probably, but taking the time to recall the memory usually brings it back. the memory, if it's looked for on any sort of regular basis, won't disappear for good. it'll eventually turn into a stain, instead, marking itself on your past."

scenario two is sort of a stretch. doesn't matter, really, as this story is going somewhere else entirely...)

when i told lisa this story, years ago, she finished my sentance for me. i said, "always was.. until even-", and she interrupted me, saying, "Until eventually, it was just a stain!"

i looked at her in disbelief. "How in the hell..?"

she looked right back, laughing, "Because i have a story that ends that exact same way! you know i lived on that dead end road when i was little, right? well this one summer, i think i was 7 or 8.. one memorial day weekend, someone brought a horse down that road, and it took a dump..."

her story, it turns out, is aptly titled: The Memorial Day Poop. you'll have to wait for her to start a blog to read that one, but, in all honesty, i'm sure you can figure out the middle for yourself.