by Steven Pirani

The wind picked up your house, and laid it back down in a field a few minutes from Dorset, where you used to pick out sweets in Weymouth before wading your feet in the River Wey, where your dreams bloomed in its wonderful carefree emptiness, where time slowed down enough for your parents to find love again —it laid your house in this microcosm of peace and quiet, then vanished into thin air, leaving your curtains to turn transparent and pink in the sun, like a suckling dog's ears. You lurched from your bed on uneasy morning knees, with sleep in your eyes, wobbling to the window, only to spot the slope of land and sky meeting, and suddenly realized you were not home — that unbeknownst to you, your body had taken flight, that time and space had turned its weary back and warped you away, that you and your home had puddle-jumped all the way back to your old abode. You shook with realization, huddling your soul into a neat bunch and curling up inside. Then, peace.