Saturday, January 30, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Billowing Curtains
I have alot of dreams about houses.
My House. The one I lived in between the ages of 9 to 13.
My dreams of that house are always strange,
full of pillows and billowing curtains in the window that turn into feather blankets.
My Great Grandma is sometimes there with her sister in the kitchen,
which in my dream is white and in a different place.
Big Queen sized beds with lots of things like books, and papers and old toys and shoe boxes filled
underneath them full of letters and cards and they are blowing around the room in the wind.
The beds usually fill the space in the bedrooms.
That is the house I left crayons and a letter I wrote to someone who may find it beneath the carpet in the corner of my closet.
Maybe that is why I still dream of that old house so often. I made ties with it's creaking walls and billowing curtains.
That house had a big window that took up most of the wall in the living room,
it's where Norman was burried and there was a haunted house no one lived in across the street.
That blue house is still there, falling apart but that great magic barn is gone.
The old park with tire swings and a rusty playground and chairs against trees is still there just like it has always been, and so are the creeks and that rickety bridge.
It's like a secret.
My House. The one I lived in between the ages of 9 to 13.
My dreams of that house are always strange,
full of pillows and billowing curtains in the window that turn into feather blankets.
My Great Grandma is sometimes there with her sister in the kitchen,
which in my dream is white and in a different place.
Big Queen sized beds with lots of things like books, and papers and old toys and shoe boxes filled
underneath them full of letters and cards and they are blowing around the room in the wind.
The beds usually fill the space in the bedrooms.
That is the house I left crayons and a letter I wrote to someone who may find it beneath the carpet in the corner of my closet.
Maybe that is why I still dream of that old house so often. I made ties with it's creaking walls and billowing curtains.
That house had a big window that took up most of the wall in the living room,
it's where Norman was burried and there was a haunted house no one lived in across the street.
That blue house is still there, falling apart but that great magic barn is gone.
The old park with tire swings and a rusty playground and chairs against trees is still there just like it has always been, and so are the creeks and that rickety bridge.
It's like a secret.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
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