The Farmhouse: A Poem Of Home
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The Farmhouse: A Poem Of Home

Grandma's house was quaint and fiery.

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The Farmhouse: A Poem Of Home
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The gravel road that forever remains unpaved.

The roll of tires over New England glittering, reflective mica. The same mica I would crouch on the driveway and pick off of dainty, jagged rocks.

The dim lights beam from kitchen windows, revealing Grandma in the far off distance.

Her face gleams with joy as a returned love enters her gaze.

The old rickety door slams shut behind and the thud of footsteps make their way upstairs.

Wet boots drip leftover droplets of rain, clambering and sliding upon the rubbery stair lining until faces of love appear atop.

I find peace in Grandma’s house and the encircling forest that gropes my heart.

I sit at the wooden table of childhood and slouch into my rickety straw chair that’s lost its woven stronghold.

Grandpa’s memory fails him. He sits solemnly at the far end, diving for words in the abyss of his deteriorating mind.

Great distance binds him to his thoughts and the cyclical bursts of happiness that rush across his withered face of ninety.

Persian carpets cover cold, bare Connecticut winter floors, working to insulate cherished heat amid drafts of a chilling winter breeze.

Artifacts from 50 years of life open up a museum of eclectic history.

Grandchildren’s photographs are sprawled across shelves, exhibiting pride in a disjointed group of young women, all polar opposites in style yet aligning intellectually.

Few pieces of furniture have been swapped out to comfortably appreciate encroaching technology.

The couch my father and I sunk into since infant-hood has not moved but an inch or so.

The glass table still clanks at the weight of footsteps, reverberating the hectic sounds of countless gatherings.

The farmhouse room doors open and close with intensity.

Cobwebs form on lamps from a clan of daddy-long-legs spanning over half a century in genealogy, making a home in my home.

The figure of Grandma undresses, admiring her live portrait of femininity adorned with a clad pink bathroom of layered pastel pink carpets and lightly detailed and thoroughly worn pink wallpaper.

The slow, winding flush of the pink toilet, the wall of many mirrors, insides lined with outdated cosmetics, expired first aid products, a tin band-aid case dating back over 20 years of Grandma’s frugality, and the tumbling sound of laundry seeping through the pink shutter doors.

The immaculate bedroom burying the burden of a broken marriage, trapped in anger and growing bittersweet as disease rots away at their last ties to earth.

Grandpa snoozes on the child-sized couch with the grumblings of Vin Scully’s Dodger game broadcast ringing from the old box tv set.

Mom’s old attic room conceals itself behind several ladder stairs.

The faded blue carpeting pills beneath my feet like a familiar touch.

The bed skims the floor. Critters harbor in their nests.

The vaulted ceiling smacks my head ritualistically.

The duck lamp remains eerily placid in the same spot it’s lit for thirty years.

The attic door shuts violently, closing on the daunting view from above to down below at the linoleum kitchen floor.

Descent washes over an unsteady fear of falling as I clench hold of each ladder pane, sliding my hands past each rung all the way to Grandma’s cold floor of safety.

Outside I feel the old stone wall beneath my palms, guiding my way to the snow lined patio, crushing thawed black ice and hard clumps of the melting white powder.

Non-migratory birds drink by the stone feeder filled to the brim with fresh rain water. The same feeder I used to frequent while milling in the dirt in search of worms.

Bare trees line the yard welcoming a vast wilderness of occasioned deer and the last of Fall’s leaves stranded in the remains of frostbitten brush and leftover dirt.

I peer inside to see Grandpa sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper and Grandma drinking a muddy cup of joe — a serene dysfunction fills a lifetime of broken memory.

The old farmhouse with its original peeling wallpaper and low-beamed patterned ceilings encloses me.

Until all the home is quiet but the creaking floors of worn love and the dim light of hearts kept alive through the return of forever aging generations.

When distance yearns to fill what’s null, the house reminds me of all that’s myself.

The house is where my memory lies.

Full of recollection when all else seems neglected.

The house is childhood.

It is life before it stopped.

My home is affection everlasting.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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