My childhood house is stripped, bared, open to the public. The for-sale sign impales the front pasture, grass is cut and prim, no trimmings left to save. Women in sable parade through halls and men in tailored suits talk about dimensions. They don’t know lizards present themselves on the basement stairs or worms dapple pears in the orchard. Doors of rabbit hutches hang from hinges and rust scratches on rust in wind, noise unheard by workers who remodel the old farmhouse into an Italian villa painted peach. Death can empty a house of shoes worn and new, of children who climbed the grandfather trees, impressing outlines like fossils littering the banks of the creek. Copyright © 2016 Margo Taft Stever. Used with permission of the author. |
No comments:
Post a Comment