a grammar

Salinger

One morning a nice young man comes to your house. You invite him in and share some coffee. He’s thoughtful and charming — good company. He makes a miniature Ferris wheel out of toothpicks and jelly beans and sets it turning on your coffee table. That’s amazing, you say: how did you do that? He frowns and shakes his head.

Eventually he wanders off down the hall and locks himself in the back bedroom. He spends all day there. You can hear him hammering, sawing, drilling. No idea what he’s up to, but he seems content back there. At first he’ll talk to you through the door — just letting you know he’s doing well back there. But not often. After a while you just leave him to it — maybe even forget he’s around. But every hour or so, you notice the Ferris wheel spinning on the coffee table, and marvel at it, or toy with it, and wonder what he’s up to back there.

The whole day passes. And only when it’s getting really late, when you know it’s just about time for him to get some sleep — that’s when he emerges, seemingly satisfied with his very long day of work, and slips away.

No idea what’s back in that room. Maybe he left some incredible gift for you; maybe he didn’t. Maybe he built something for his own reasons and then tore it down. Maybe he locked the door behind him. Either way, it’s hard to feel too bad about his leaving: he spent a very, very long day where he wanted, how he wanted, building whatever he wanted to build. And maybe he left it behind for you to play with.