There are nights 

when the dreams of that house

break through these bedroom walls,

as the ringing in my ears 

becomes the sound of my own name, 

echoing through that third floor stairway

into the open pocket doors 

of the dining room, 

through the nine windows in the sun parlor,

finally escaping into the gravel stones

of the backyard.

 

An old house

built in the 1920’s, 

when building houses was an art-form,

When carpenters carried photographs

of their craftsmanship,

and carved their service into honor

with their hands.

 

There were so much wood in that house

Wooden beams on the ceiling,

Wooden pillars between rooms,

a wooden mantel above the fireplace, 

parquet floors, mahogany furniture.

As a child I’d imagine faces 

staring at me in the lines of the wood

ready to leap alive to capture me.

 

Beautiful carnival glass adorned 

the bronze chandeliers in the living room.

From the same room 

a stained glass window 

looked down upon us from the staircase,

its green stems and red roses 

so vibrant in the afternoon light.

 

I came back home at the age of 50

Divorced, two sons fully grown and gone,

I had to decide my next living arrangement 

since my landlord wanted to sell,

I chose to move to the 3rd floor apartment

of my parent’s house.

 

‘In Retrospect’

these became the best years of my life.

Being back at home with mom and dad

bought an everyday wonder,

a magical presence of my old life

mingling with the new.

I felt like a kid with a grown up heart

who knew exactly where she was.

(to be continued)