The House
It sat on a lot. On a concrete foundation poured years and years ago, mazes of cement like outlines for a future. Stakes of iron held it together, and puzzles of timber erected a roof. Windowpanes witnessed Christmas mornings, marine-layered springs, fairy summers, and crisp falls.
This grand model wore stains from nail polish and scuffs from stiletto heels. Voices from times passed diffused into the walls, whispering memories during each hallway stroll. Time weathered the banister railing. Footprints molded into the stairway runner.
Cinnamon scented mornings alongside hazelnut brews. Vanilla diffused like perfume from glass bottles with reed sticks. Dark wood made elegant rooms where they sat, read, cooked, and loved.
Garden roses, agapanthus, hibiscus, and calla lilies sprouted from delicate bulbs into wind-dancing blooms. Patient with persistent suns and welcomed petaled neighbors. Caged fires roasted white fluff to prime goldenness. A long wooden table collected feasts.
Couches were for cuddles and the piano for evening tunes. Fortunate mornings brought them around a curved slab of granite, whorls of gold and black and tan and ivory, representations of stories told in the stone.
Mirrors glimpsed faces. Wrinkles born, freckles faded, braced teeth perfected into Saturday night smiles. Hung onto walls whose colors changed with a flick of a brush. Over the years, they reflected unaccustomed eyes.
Shutters came and went, and doors with scrolls opened to the next stage. Framed photographs memorialized eras old, time-travel in all viewers.
At night, beams creaked, walls moaned, and glass panes drank up spears of moonlight. Rugs caught falls. Money trees offered luck. Fireplaces gathered crowds and put on shows. Chandeliers shined; dewdrops of light spilling floor bound. Closets enshrined soccer trophies, ballet slippers, and softball gloves.
Houses never lied, truth in their build, trust in their rafters.
It was always a house. The family made it home.
