Identities by w. d. valgardson

Normally, he goes clean-shaven into the world, but the promise of a Saturday

liquid with sunshine draws him first from his study to the backyard, from there to his

front lawn. The smell of burning leaves stirs the memories of childhood car

rides, narrow lanes adrift with yellow leaves, girls on plodding horses, unattended

stands piled high with pumpkins, onions, or beets so that each one was, in its own way,

a still life. Always, there were salmon tins glinting with silver, set above hand-painted

signs instructing purchasers to deposit twenty-five or fifty cents. This act of faith

containing all the stories he has read in childhood about the North - cabins left

unlocked, filled with supplies for hapless wayfarers - wakes in him a desire to

temporarily abandon the twice-cut yards and hundred-year-old oaks.

He does not hurry for he has no destination. He meanders, instead, through the neat

suburban labyrinth of cul-de-sacs, bays and circles, losing and finding himself endlessly.

Becoming lost is made all the easier because the houses repeat themselves with

superficial variations. There grows within him, however, a vague unease with

symmetry, with nothing left to chance, no ragged edges, no unkempt vacant lots, no

houses rendered unique by necessity and indifference.