I came in through the garden door. I remember liking the little red-capped gnomes that pointed the way; they looked like one that had lived in a painting in the foyer of my previous home, but their rain-dirtied porcelain bespoke a breadth of history that the painted gnome had lacked. I followed their insistent fingers like an infant taking its first steps, never knowing exactly why, up to and through the open door— then they were forgotten. Moist soil cooled my feet and filled the spaces between my toes, and the world became suddenly indistinct: shadows like sun-shy bass, bodiless but for their twitching tails, lurked at the edges of my vision; the sound of my breath and my hearts steady rhythm faded from my awareness; a summer of rain poured through my ears. Some time later— there is no telling—I retreated outside and wandered about the garden, searching for a likely resting place. Finding no one patch of grass much more appealing than another, all hedgerows trimmed and flowerbeds tidy, my only object became silence—for as though a swarm of gadflies had followed me out the door, the wearisome noise I had encountered inside the house still persisted. I drew deeper into the garden to no relief. Nausea like a creeping vine spread down the lengths of my arms and legs, twisted up around my spine, and pressed against the backs of my retinas, making of my musculature an unwilling trellis. My stride stiffened until I could walk no longer, and I fell to the ground.
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