Porchwood Hollow

It wasn’t always of Porchwood Hollow, before it found its place among the Hollow, The Big Red Crayon stood watch in an exhibit at the museum. It was once a towering monument to creativity, bold, silly, and important all at once.

The Big Red Crayon thrived among the chaos and echoes of school groups. It had a purpose for grown- ups and children alike.

But…time shifts

Displays change…

The laughter, and the excitement moved on elsewhere.

The Big Red Crayon was rolled into the back hallway close to the freight elevator. It was still guarding, still proud, still enormous with presence. The museum staff passed it hundreds, if not thousands of times without a glance. It wasn’t part of the remodel. It wasn’t part of the future. They were going to throw it away.

Until someone remembered…

“Are you going to throw that away? I would like to take it home with me,” she asked.

There was a still moment,

a deep pause, then a shrug and a half laugh of;

“Sure, I guess. Why do you want an eight foot tall crayon?”

She smiled, “Are you kidding me? It is so ridiculous, I love it!”

The Big Red Crayon blushed, but no one noticed because it was, after all, a red crayon. To itself it whispered, “I will call her the Keeper.” At first the Keeper thought that she would cover up the museum plaque.The one about the importance of creativity and play that was embezzled on the belly of the crayon. It felt too official, too much. However, once The Big Red Crayon was placed beside the Keeper’s front door, something strange began to happen. Cars started slowing down, people paused to read what the crayon had to say.

“Play is important.”

Play is essential.”

“What will you create today?”

And somehow?? That changed everything.

The porch became a stage. The threshold became a page, and there stood the museum’s old exhibit: Porchwood Hollow had its first resident!

The Big Red Crayon watched over the Keeper as she began to bring the others in. She moved in not furniture, but lush plants, forgotten treasures, a struggling triage of those learning to love again, and stories not yet told. What once was a blank page was now a living testament to resilience, wonder, belonging, and the slow return to purpose.

And the crayon? It never asked to be important. It simply stood, watching and remembering. It started marking the moment when play returned and the story began again. The crayon was no longer a decoration. The magic became real. The stories healed. That sometimes forgotten can become something new. That endings can become beginnings.

The crayon was never just a crayon. It had waited in silence, tucked away like so many things that once mattered. The Keeper? She saw it, not just for what it had been, but for what it still could be. The crayon stood not as a decoration, but as a witness. It did not draw pictures. It drew people. It did not write words. It said Welcome. It did not ask questions, but answered one: “Does play still belong to us?”

“Yes!” the crayon says.

And the world, for a moment, believes it.