Somewhere in the depths of the debris and general crap crowding my porch, hides a magical pirate sword. Or, not magical excactly. Cheap is the right word. Bought at Savers, or The Dollar Store, or maybe a garage sale, and doubtless painted with lead paint. Or mercury. Anyway, it’s one of those toys that little boys love and moms hate because with every move, it mimics the metallic sound of metal sliding against metal. The clash of swords, the thrill of the swashbuckler, and we are suddenly transformed into Jack Sparrow or Blackbeard or Anne Bonney, or Edward Lowe.
Except, we can’t find the sword. And if it’s underneath the pile of soccer shoes or roller skates, if its buried in the wood pile or the heaped packaging from our new windows that I just haven’t taken out yet, I have no idea. What I do know is that every time we walk in the door, we are greeted with a clash of swords. Whether I’m holding the groceries or the mail or a sleeping kid, I come home to the slice of blade upon blade. “Avast!” I cry. “We meet at last, Blackbeard!” And in my swashbuckling, pirate soul, I’m not making dinner or cleaning up dog vomit. I’m on the high seas, fighting to the death.
And that, I swear, is the real reason why I haven’t cleaned my porch.