Your Gift is a Curse!

This was supposed to be a cheery little post about replacing the porch on our playhouse. It was going to go something like this:

 

Once upon a time there was a workshop that was magically transformed into a playhouse. It had four walls, a roof and a little front porch. The front porch was very nearly the best part. One sorrowful day the porch began to sag so tremendously that it had to be removed.

 

 

The playhouse, without it's porch, was a sorry sight indeed. Luckily, a troop of five devoted companions set to work restoring it to it's joyfully porchy self!

 

 

 They toiled tirelessly throughout the day without incident or injury thinking of nothing but their beloved porch. Well, not exactly tirelessly. And there may have been one or two incidents. And I suppose some of the companions were slightly less focused than others. But there were definitely no serious injuries!



 

 

Finally, with the rebuilding of the porch, magic returned to the land! There were unicorns and leprechauns and much rejoicing! And they all lived happily ever after.

 

***
 

That should have been the end of the story. It was a classic fairy tale with a happy ending. Unfortunately, when I awoke the next morning, I realized; the story wasn't over, it had a dark twist and not everyone lived, happily or otherwise, ever after.

 

I parted the curtains and rubbed my sleepy eyes, eager to peer out at the sturdy little porch we had worked so lovingly on the day before. I kept rubbing my eyes and wondering what that brown thing was beneath the rainbow. It couldn't be a dead mouse. Of course not. So I pulled on my boots and went out for a better look. Upon closer inspection I found that it was a dead mouse.

 

Obviously this was a very bad omen. Or maybe a threat. This mouse on my porch was clearly a horse head on my pillow. I should be afraid. Very afraid.

Using two sticks I found on the ground I proceeded to perform an unintentionally morbid comedy act. You see, it is more difficult than I had imagined it would be to lift a dead mouse, with chopsticks, into an open bag. On my 47th try I met with success and carted the body off.

As the day wore on and the feeling of foreboding began to lift I realized that I may have been a wee bit hasty in my assumption that something was out to get me. Maybe the porch is not only an entry, a stage and a soapbox. Maybe it is an altar. Maybe this dead mouse was intended as an offering. Somehow I find that slightly more comforting.