Four families old she stands against the rain
Green shutters with wooden flecks
And a porch gently warped and peeling
The broom-clean foyer stands behind the oak and glass door,
A common mosaic in black and white tile beneath our feet
As we stand before the hallway hand-crafted and cracking in plaster and lathe.
The staircase that rises before us to the second storey
Is covered with thread-bare carpet of a later vintage:
Deep-green seventies shag.
“That’s got to go,” you say, and I laugh.
In the empty sitting room stands a tarnished brass floor lamp with a tilted shade.
I turn the key-shaped switch and there is a brief flicker of light
And then we are back in the gray window light
On your knees, you take the ceramic plug in your hand and squeeze the prongs together
You press it back into the socket and the yellow-tinged light returns
We hear a gust of wind in the trees outside
Again the light flickers and finally takes hold
Casting our shadows across the room.
A dried rosebud sits atop a brittle stem in a church bazaar vase
Beneath the kitchen cupboards’ streaked panes and the frames
Covered with layers of pearly enamel.
The steps creak under our feet and echo through the empty house
As we climb the stairs to our room
With the balance of time still in our favor.
Originally published in the Loch Raven Review
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