The House on the Corner

There’s a house at an intersection that isn’t quite downtown, across from the grocery and liquor stores, the car wash and the old Blockbuster that closed not long ago. It sits empty and with the windows all boarded up. The trees around it have grown hundreds of feet into the air and in the summer their branches are laden with broad green leaves that hide it from the highway. An old chicken coop sits out back, disintegrated so long ago that I’m really not sure that it ever existed. Grass grows untamed in the yard, not quite waist high and swaying gently with the breeze.

I pass by this house every other day or so, and every time I gaze at it. I can imagine it in all it’s glory, before there was a highway in front of it. Sometimes I imagine a rope swing hanging from the sturdy branches of one of the trees, or little kids climbing them. Every once in a while I imagine a dog running through the long grass, chasing a squirrel or a prairie dog back to where it came from. More often than not, though, I imagine myself living there. I imagine that it is my home and that there is no big road or grocery store or old closed down Blockbuster. I picture myself hanging onto the rope swing, or sitting on the porch with a journal and a sketchbook, recording everything I see so that I can share it with the rest of the world. This is my paradise. This is where I want to be.

But all I can do is watch it longingly as I pass it by, taking in the boards in the windows and the chipped and faded paint on the weathered siding. I take in the beautiful trees that are so hard to come by out here, and the lush green grass, and even the chicken coop that is long gone. I take it in, and every time I do a little piece of me feels like it might explode from the sheer weight of the desire I feel to make that decrepit house my home.

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~ by Rckrgrl on May 31, 2010.

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