Gran had two china swans on the rail of her porch, heads dipped as if staring at the bleached grass in front of her house.
There was a bench on the porch with a patchwork cushion, the fabric soft as felt from years of washing. I would sit on that cushion and squint until the swans softened and shimmered, until they seemed to drift on the hill opposite, swimming amid the treetops.
I once told Gran about the swans, how they swam in the sky, how the leaves parted before them, swirled in eddies behind.
The peas she was shelling plopped glossy green into an enamel bowl. ‘If nonsense was worth money, you’d be the richest of us all,’ she said, shaking her head.
She willed me that old wooden house and I left it to hollow out and flake to splinters.
I kept the swans.
Written for What Pegman Saw, the prompt that uses Google Streetview as its starting point. See here to join in and to read the other stories. This week Pegman returns to the Western Hemisphere to take us on a tour of Littleton, West Virginia.