Friday, July 22, 2011
an old bike in front of the barn near the house i used to live in. some old blacktop over the earth where i once saw a snake coiled, moving slowly and deliberately but with little effort. lying awake at night hoping to awake to the sound of feral puppies crying underneath the floorboards, their mother killed in some tragic accident. reaching, scared, needing and not knowing how to take. old houses breathe around you. my father once expressed the utmost disgust for people who try to install insulation in old houses. "they can't breathe anymore if you do that" he'd say. my parents' house has this room that's always been called "the no-no room" for as long as the house has been in our family (must be something like 100 years by now). I'm assuming it was once a formal dining room where no children were to be caught. at this point it's just filled with memories no one has time to organize. there's an old piano in there that doesn't fit out the door. i think my grandmother said they had to break a wall down to get it in there. i think i consider it the heart of the house, but i don't know anymore.