Green

It was tall, brown, and green, and it was my little secret. Down in the valley by my schoolyard, I would take a left at the pile of old cars and walk for a mile through the field until I came to a thin, brown stream that was inactive in winter and spring. In autumn the water ran cold and slipped through my fingers like dirt. When I crossed the steam (I could step over it most often), I went right, and there it was, in a corner by two abandoned cement structures.I could never fully describe it. It was like an old pen stuck into the ground, except it was all brown and thick, and its texture was rough. But at the top, thinner brown strands spewed off like wires, but strong wires. But the most amazing part was the little slips of green paper on the end of these wires. But its texture was so detailed. . . I wonder who made it. Some summers I even found small green ball-shaped things hanging with the papers. The papers and those balls were the only green things I had seen, besides walls and things on the screen. In autumn, its wires and papers would flap in the air with the wind, and in winter the paper would be taken down and made brown. I never realized until I was older that it was turning brown itself, not being painted. It was almost like me, when I got a cut. I thought it was broken, but it was always fixed by summer.Anyway, that was years ago. I would go there on troubling weekends at home, or after tiresome school days, especially in my first few years of school, and later when I began to contemplate why we were here. My mother always said that people had always lived like us, and the Founders had wanted it this way, but I never believed her. Especially not after I saw that thing, with its paper changing color and its little green balls.Green. It feels good to say it in my head. Green. I once read a paper story I found in my parents basement. I didnt understand it, but it reminded me of the brown, green thing. It was almost ancient, and used green many times. I dont know what happened to that thing. I wish I knew, but I moved to a different school too far away, and became too busy. It became a childhood phantasm, a residue in my mind that didnt quite fit with adulthood understandings. But Ive been thinking about it, and I think someday Im going to look for it. I think it has to do with why were here. And I dont mean what were taught in school; I mean what we know, what were sure about. What the ancients knew, and how they lived. I never told anyone about it. It was my little secret. I felt like I had the entire universe to myself with it, with the deep purple sky above, or the deep black of night. I felt like I knew it; like we were friends from eons ago, but I couldnt quite recognize its face, or remember its name. But I would, if I thought long enough, I would.No one ever came near where it was. It was a sad thing, in a sad place. The field ran for miles. The dirt was too loose for building, and now that I think of it, it mightve been a fallout zone. Do those things only live there? Maybe thats why we never see them. Ive got to find out if anyone knows what Im talking about, but Im afraid they would take it down if they knew I had found it. Does it even have a name? Does anyone know who made it?The old ones spoke of a time when four walls were not always there. The others laugh and ask what was, if not walls? I think I know now. I think I understand.All I know is that that thing will never leave me, in heart or mind.