A House
The house was empty.
IT was '95 when they bought it. And he still remembers when she brought in the first box of there things and set it down on the living room floor and made it there house that night; that night, so long ago now -- did it happen?
It was 1995 when they bought it. And he still remembers when Steph brought that first cardbox in and set it down on the room they would make the living room -- she set it down and already looked tired; she hunched over it, drained, from the long shift work -- but on her face there was nothing but proud look; an optimistic sidelong glare and he was happy --
But these memories he had are unreliable.
It was summertime when they moved in.
The house was two stories. It was green. It had shingles, siding, a rough roof with some holes, it needed some attention. Large bay windows looked out to nothing but trees. The house was by the water. Not too far from the water. It wasn't waterfront. What a steal ! the realtor had said; an investment for your future she said...
A house is where you live.
And it was by that aforementioned water were they like to float around, on a raft, with no paddles. They'd just put there feet over the edge and kick if they wanted to go anywhere; but often: they'd just stay in the raft and drink booze or do lines.
Before long the house became there's. Personalized. Decorated. All your possesions move in with you and become part of the house, part of the walls, part of the furniture. A house is the furniture. A house is what it holds.
The phone rang.
He answered.
"Yes...yes... that's it ..."
It was time to leave.
He'd never come back.
The only thing he left was the rubber raft. The realtor, or the family moving in, might wonder why it was left there, in a pile of shreds, but hopefully, they'd never know; they forget it quickly and move in. Become there house.
He never wanted to come back.
------------
Just bored and just wrote this little ditty right here right now .
The house was empty.
IT was '95 when they bought it. And he still remembers when she brought in the first box of there things and set it down on the living room floor and made it there house that night; that night, so long ago now -- did it happen?
It was 1995 when they bought it. And he still remembers when Steph brought that first cardbox in and set it down on the room they would make the living room -- she set it down and already looked tired; she hunched over it, drained, from the long shift work -- but on her face there was nothing but proud look; an optimistic sidelong glare and he was happy --
But these memories he had are unreliable.
It was summertime when they moved in.
The house was two stories. It was green. It had shingles, siding, a rough roof with some holes, it needed some attention. Large bay windows looked out to nothing but trees. The house was by the water. Not too far from the water. It wasn't waterfront. What a steal ! the realtor had said; an investment for your future she said...
A house is where you live.
And it was by that aforementioned water were they like to float around, on a raft, with no paddles. They'd just put there feet over the edge and kick if they wanted to go anywhere; but often: they'd just stay in the raft and drink booze or do lines.
Before long the house became there's. Personalized. Decorated. All your possesions move in with you and become part of the house, part of the walls, part of the furniture. A house is the furniture. A house is what it holds.
The phone rang.
He answered.
"Yes...yes... that's it ..."
It was time to leave.
He'd never come back.
The only thing he left was the rubber raft. The realtor, or the family moving in, might wonder why it was left there, in a pile of shreds, but hopefully, they'd never know; they forget it quickly and move in. Become there house.
He never wanted to come back.
------------
Just bored and just wrote this little ditty right here right now .
