September 6, 2008
-
A house.
It is a house. Wooden floors. It is the autumn, so everything is breezy. The screen doors let the sound of the radio playing soft folk music permeates throughout. Everything has been hand-built down to the last floor board, years have been soaked into the wood with incredible attention to detail. The house lives and breathes of memories I have never experienced.
A breeze comes in through the front door and up the stairs, following me as I make my way to a beautiful woman sleeping in her bed. I climb into bed without saying a word, she latches on to me like I had been sleeping there as long as she had. Her skin is so soft and hair that smells like the house. She makes noises of comfort and is soon asleep again. I stare past the green, paneled windows at the plants as the sunlight fades and drift in and out of consciousness.
I wake up and head downstairs and look out a window that is only as big as a basketball to catch a glimpse of the morning. I walk outside to the deck where her Mom is drinking coffee. The deck has a fiborous texture to it, you feel the grain of the wood with your feet. She asks me questions of curiosity, none of them obtrusive as I sit looking at the garden planted on the hill in front of me. There are pots of different colors and sizes scattered everywhere with exotic plants and annuals.
She comes downstairs from her sleep, with her own coffee mug. She sits on my lap and answers her Mom's curious questions. She shakes her leg slightly in her state of thought. She is wearing what she went to bed in: a pair of boxers and an old T-shirt. She feels so warm on this chilly morning, I don't want that warmth to go away.
