~ House ~

The staircase to the loft is steep and narrow, but its bannister has stout pickets, closely spaced and solidly anchored. The mid-way landing is spacious enough for the litter box, which the cats use with wild abandon, especially in the middle of the night. The stairs leading up from it offer a selection of heights, convenient for the cleaning of such box. The bathroom is small and has low water pressure but is well-lit and has a deep tub with jets. The water is also free. The box spring for the bed would not fit up the low-ceilinged staircase, but I found someone who had a split one which they were giving away. I have decided I like my bed on the floor, rather than supported on rails, and so I found someone who needed the rails and bed frame. There is much traffic noise, as this farmhouse is very close to the highway. It was was built in 1948, and there was no highway then. The noise was, at first, a bother but has now become a lullaby of sorts. Even the nightly train whistle is a part of the construct and would be missed if stopped. There is no heat in the upstairs bedroom, so I will buy a small heater and close the door in the winter. I have heard that it will be very hot in the summer, so I will deal with that. We have a large property with outbuildings and, further back, a fire pit. There will be no leaves to rake in the fall, as the trees are all evergreens. There are no ghosts, though I once fancied I heard furniture move at three in the morning. The ambulance depot is two minutes from here, and the hospital fifteen.

Knowing

We have met old men on the sidewalks. 

One lay prone, half on the grass, and, reaching up, said “Thank you for my coat. Thank you for my shoes, and for the air- my food.”  

Behind us, one day, we heard a scraping and a shuffling, and we turned to see this one man who was dragging a sizeable branch. We, perplexed, said a pleasantry, but he said only “I am going home.” 

A third sat propped against a young oak and smoked something that was flaming. Its fume was fragrant, and he smiled and wrinkled his nose. 

And this old man feels a dwindling in his heart, a barrel in his chest, and walks on tin man joints. The brain and courage dwindle too, but the smile is knowing. 

~Brother~

Expecting a rude tin can— “Here, this is what you can afford”, I opened the entrusted six-by-six box with my car keys (here, this is how prepared you were). Inside- his ashes, of course, but in a dark red bag of the thickest velvet I had ever felt, drawstrung and tasseled in gold. His remains (bone-beige, of course) were like so many grains of rice, though I thought of them as seeds. Tomorrow, I will be down by the riverside for the casting and the crudest of blessings, with a hardy shrub for the planting, and with tears, I expect, still unshed. 

Old hands

I don’t know if I love you. I’ve seen your shining side, and I wonder how much of the other you would put up with in me, and I in you. Are we old hands at this? I think that those who have not been loved may guard their hearts unwisely, for having only ~things~ is a sadness.