Two cousins, one movie, and the long walk back
We walked into the Elmira 1-2-3
as if through a mouth of light,
two boys, Bubby and me,
coins warm from our palms.
Carpenter’s mask waited:
white, unblinking,
a face so empty it filled everything.
The knife flashed once,
and the world narrowed to breath.
We didn’t speak then,
just watched Laurie run,
her terror a mirror for our own.
Outside, the street was too still.
Each porchlight felt staged,
each hedge held its breath.
Halfway home, it struck -
the pivot of knowing.
It wasn’t Michael Myers we feared
but the sudden proof
that safety was a story
we’d been told too long.
The night turned older than we were.
Elmira itself leaned closer,
its streets folding like film...
frame over frame -
until we were walking inside the reel,
the Shape pacing somewhere
just beyond the cut.
Passing the old cemetery on Second Street
We whistled to keep the dark from hearing us,
our courage a small, flickering thing.
By our block, Bubby’s laugh cracked,
mine followed, a ghost of it.
Years later, I still see it:
the mask,
blank as a stopped clock,
hovering at the edge of memory,
not a monster,
but the moment the world
learned our names.
GBS
2002
0 Comments