Saturday, July 2, 2016

The Farmhouse

I know the ivory paint is chipped and peeling. I know the dusty floorboards creak under my weight. I know that the odd splinter will find you if you're not paying attention.

But I don't care.

I love this place.

I love the cobwebs in the corners. I love the lace curtains rippling in the breeze from the open windows. The sunlight reaching across the old subway tile offers a warm greeting each morning. The wobbly Robin's egg blue kitchen table bids me to sit and sip my coffee; invites me to watch the hummingbirds from one of it's well worn chairs.

I love this house.

As a child I explored each nook and cranny. Hid in the pantry and shouted, "Boo!" at my Grandmother as she kneaded pie dough. I played in the attic. Accidentally locked myself in the basement once. Helped plant and harvest Grandma's vegetable garden. This old farmhouse is where I learned to sew and cook and what the value of a dollar was. It's grove of trees is where I learned to laugh and swing and dream.

This is home.

I looked at the mail littering the top of the old blue table. The red letters glared at me--an open challenge. Past Due. I didn't move to open it. I'm sure it read the same as the rest of them. Grandma's face smiled at me from the fireplace mantle. Past Due. Why in the hell didn't she ever once say anything about the bank?

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