ASIDE: HOMECOMING

Thanks again for wandering back here to Lukesh Literature.

Speaking of wandering, a lot of the Lukesh flock have been wandering, somewhat aimlessly at times, since the passing of my father, Richard Lukesh, in January. Due to his departure, many things have been put on temporary hold. This includes the second Edsel Peck book, among other works I’m writing.

As a side note, I want to wish another immense thank you to everyone who has been there for us collectively the past year. It’s been a rough road, but there appears to be a paved highway up ahead.

To tide some of you over while waiting impatiently for the next Edsel Peck adventure, I present to you a small piece of writing originally written over twenty years ago. I polished it up and am throwing it out there to be read by you. Comments and thoughts are always welcomed.

—Lukesh

HOMECOMING

The front yard of 114 Bradley Street is nothing shy of a deep-brown mud puddle, shadowed by a copse of maples and oaks. Amidst the still dark water, floated a bright, patriotic-colored beach ball like a living globe in the darkness of space. Nearby, other remnants of a child’s existence are strewn across the yard—wiffle ball bats, a plastic tricycle and a muddied soccer ball rest lifelessly amidst the freshly fallen autumn foliage.

Next to the front door, “Home Sweet Home” is chiseled in a cheap block of wood, painted with flowers and a personified sun, by the hands of a 6-year-old artist. Beneath the handmade greeting, is a rusted mailbox overfilling with bills, credit-card offers and announcements claiming the winning of millions.

Pushing past the screen door, tattered by the claws of a cat that can’t be found, one is welcomed with a living room stinking of fried food and the ammonia stench of felines. All the yellowed drapes are pulled, casting a dim amber hue upon the family portrait that hangs next to the painting of dogs shooting pool. The meager furniture is positioned over various stains and angled around a small television, like a gang of vultures eyeing a dying antelope. There are book-bags and school books scattered about the floor; the cables of video game controllers sprawl across the old carpeting into the shadows that never leave the perimeters of the room.

Beyond the living room, is the kitchen and a corner dedicated to dining. The compressor behind the refrigerator is rattling away, causing the magnets to shiver slightly across its surface. The pilot on the stove has burned out and the LCD digits on the microwave are blinking with preset numbers. On the countertop, what was once white bread, is now a furry creation covered with blue-green spots and the neighboring cold cuts have turned black with neglect.

The oak dining table is a family heirloom, carved delicately and ornately by an Irish carpenter over 180 years ago. For the exception of a weakened leg, tested nightly by the heavy elbows of an over-worked father, carrying a world’s worth of woes upon his shoulders, the table is the most valuable item in the house. Though merely a piece of furniture to some, in any good house where a family remains strong through the worst of times, the table holds more than meals. It holds years’ worth of laughter and tears. It holds the memories of birthdays and arguments, celebrations and sadness. It is part of the family.

The table is set for a family of five, two parents and three children. Around the table are four folding wooden chairs and a high-chair, obviously not part of the great immigrant craftsmanship dedicated to the original table. Most of the cutlery and dinnerware matches, for the exception of the drinking glasses which range from tumblers to plastic glasses purchased with meals from various fast-food restaurants.

To the left of the dining corner is a darkened hallway which reaches out toward two bedrooms and bathroom. The lights in the bathroom fail to work, but through the small window next to the shower, a distant daylight catches motes of dust floating through the otherwise black room. On the floor is a crumpled towel, the other half hanging over the edge of the tub. There’s a scattering of toothbrushes resting on the tank of the toilet, dried toothpaste on the edge of the sink and an overfilled wastebasket in the corner.

The door to the parent’s bedroom is locked from the inside.

The two windows in the children’s bedroom lack curtains, allowing an axis of light to cut down the middle of the hardwood floor, making this room the brightest one in the house. There are two small beds, covers and sheets wrinkled and strewn about. Pajamas are carelessly left on the floor, suggesting a rushed morning where alarms failed to go off and kids were ushered off quickly to a school bus waiting impatiently outside. Assorted toys with small pieces litter the floor, waiting to puncture the soft soles of anyone brave enough to visit. A hill of clothing, turned inside out, rests heavily in one corner, spreading out across the floor like a landslide.

The walls are decorated with posters of cartoon characters and baseball stars, interspersed with manila-tinted sheets of paper with elementary school illustrations on them. Enormous smiling faces on stick-figure bodies stare down at the plastic figures atop the numerous Little League trophies which blatantly brag that this room is inhabited by two boys.

In the closet, dress clothes hang wounded from plastic hangers; clothes reserved for moments like funerals, spelling bees and other situations which rarely come around. Among the button-down shirts and slacks is a pair of winter coats waiting to be used in a month or two. Beneath the orphaned outfits are garbage bags containing summer clothes meant to be stored in the attic, but instead, left forgotten.

Next to the black bags of clothing is a large toy chest. It was originally painted blue but has cracked and peeled over time, leaving a shattered pattern of the wood underneath. Inside, there are two boys. One is six, one is eight. The duct tape around their wrists are tugging at their fine blonde hairs. Their mouths are stuffed with socks and wrapped several times with twine that has worn red lines into their ears. With wide eyes, they stare through the cartoonishly large keyhole at the figure in black on the other side of the room.