Right now I’m reading The Hero of Ages book three in the Mistborn series. They’ve been talking a lot about animal bones, and it’s creeping me out.
See, my mother was an archeologist, and when I was little, she still collected animal bones. Like a lot of them. I sort of knew she had bones somewhere in the house, but it wasn’t a thing we ever really talked about. She just picked up bones when she found them, and they disappeared.
In hindsight, I probably should have asked where the bones were going, but I was little and still having trouble with the concept of ownership and permanence.
One day, my mom told me to go to the attic and get something. Our house had a huge attic, like bigger than most apartments in Manhattan. The door to the attic was one of three on the wall of one room. Me, being a little kid, didn’t know which door went to the attic, so I just decided to try opening one.
I chose poorly. I opened the door to a closet filled with bones. And then… bones fell on me. Just animal bones deciding they didn’t want to stay stacked and tumbling down onto my poor little head.
There was screaming. There were probably tears. And I ended up with three fears from that ten seconds of trauma.
I was scared of going to the attic from that day on.
Anything that can tumble from above and land on my head is not okay.
Animal bones should not be messed with because for all I know the ghost of a squirrel pushed that mess down on me in vengeance for my mother disturbing its grave.
So if you see me holding a book that I seem to be enjoying, but every once in a while I cringe, now you’ll know why.