Makeshift

Chapter 1

I can remember a different time. A time I have not lived in, but remember. An era of color and joy, far from where the world rests now, I can see it. Far from the imaginations of a toddler to the makings of an old man, I can see it. I see it and yearn for it, the it that is unexplainable but at the same time bliss. I have odd imaginings of a time when war did not plague the land, there are rich people and poor people, and they have their differences but ultimately find solid ground to stand on. A time when power is a sign of corruption, and simplicity is a sign of perfection. My thoughts of a past world such as this would confuse my neighbors. They would assume my innocence of youth had turned into madness. I keep my childish wonderings to myself.

I bring myself to the present day. The now. I am reminded constantly to keep track of ‘the now’ but I find it nearly impossible to do so. If they could see what I could see, this world, this perfection of the past, maybe they would understand. But everyone’s minds are regrettably dull and empty. I glance up, remembering I am in the middle of a trade. The blank stare of Dahlia, the street’s best seamstress reflects no knowledge of the fact I was probably staring at nothing for the past minute or so. It is just blank. She stands looking at me, in hand the fleece I was trading her for what I’m assuming are the three ears of corn in my hands. Who knows, my mind is often blurry after such wonderings occur in my mind. I respect Dahlia. She gives me my space. She never questions my so obvious black outs. So I never question her so obvious blank stare. There are rumors around town saying she is blind. I don’t believe them. I believe Dahlia is withdrawn, nothing more. And I respect that.

“I’m sorry where were we?” I plan to get this over with as soon as possible. I disagree whenever father sends me to trade with Dahlia. She has a way of making me feel as though I am robbing her. “Yes…” Dahlia muses, her stare still in oblivion. “I believe you were about to give me that corn, dear.” I make no move to give her the corn. I learned from an early age to never be the one to trade the goods first. It ends badly with most traders. They take it with a smirk on their face, and run away as pitiful men, driven to their lowest. Dahlia seems to understand, and hands me the maroon fleece in her hand. I hand her the corn once I have the fleece in hand. She looks at me, for a moment breaking her empty stare. I look at her as well. She is old. Her face reminds me of a picture of bark I saw once. Gnarled, imperfect in many ways, but somehow still beautiful. Her eyes are a deep grey, and I see something long forgotten in her eyes as they bore into mine. Maybe that is why she stares so much. Maybe she is trying to recall the something that she has lost. “Thank you, dear, I really needed this.”  There it is. As soon as Dahlia muttered those words I felt it. I felt as though I was robbing her, just the smallest hint of sarcasm at the end of her phrase. I have not a clue if she means to do so, either way, it makes my heart sink. I look at her again and for the first time notice a golden necklace among her other jewels and beads wrapped around her neck. I felt as though I’d seen it before, as if it had some deeper meaning I could not recall. The gold shimmered and I only had a glimpse, but I saw, and seeing things you’re not supposed to is often dangerous. I turn around, bid her a good day, and silently vow never to return. The thing I saw gave me an odd sense of fear. I had seen an eye. A golden bird. It was not detailed at all, yet somehow pronounced itself as an bird. I ignore it and tell myself to stop making small things into the largest of mysteries.

I almost trip on the old, ugly rugs gluttonously spread across her floor. The rugs, I’m sure, are there to symbolize her wealth. No one has rugs these days except the rich. Far too expensive, and really rather pointless. Dahlia is not a rich woman, so she must have made them herself or had them handed down to her. My bare feet cringe as they hit the dirt road. Twelve years walking, and my feet still haven’t gotten used to the rocks of all the roads around here. Father says I don’t need shoes. That no one has them anymore. I cannot complain, because he was right. No one seems to mind the obsolete lack of shoes. Some towns have shoemakers, but they are the powerful, wealthy towns. We find no need for them down in our sweet little mud hole, and find them rather silly. But I think everyone secretly yearns for their feet to be much less then callus, and yearn for shoes while they’re at it. People say they don’t need these things, but the truth is, while they may not need them, they want them.