The House

There's an image in my mind of a house I've never seen.

It's a big old wooden double-story place with a large front porch. A short walk of steps leads to the front door. The kitchen is filled with sunlight streaming through jars of newly-made preserves on the windowsill, reflected on a warm golden-brown floor. There is a large living room with a fireplace and a 3-sided view. The house wraps itself without interruption around its heart.

A staircase rises inside the front door and through the middle of the house, leading to floors that creak when you walk and thunder when you run. Under the eaves cozy rooms nestle. Rain on the roof sounds like hail.

There is a massive tree in front of the house and an old tyre swing hangs from its ancient arms. Un-interfered-with grass ripples down to a little creek at the bottom of the garden. The sounds of children at play and a happy dog can be heard from its secret green curtains.

Beyond the house stands an old barn, the cows coming in for the evening, scattering chickens and a goose or two. An orchard hums with warm bees, sheltering green swathes of vegetation and field creatures. Fat juicy vegetables reside in plump soil beyond the kitchen window.

Far in the distance the horizon is ringed with wooded hills. No city lights pollute the night sky. Sounds of animals and a lone tractor carry across the still air forever.

Sometimes I think I catch glimpses of it. Perhaps this house is a merging of good memories. Maybe it's a vision of things to come. It might be just a dream.