I like old places. Old houses, old barns. Places with memories. I had occasion to spend time at an old place this weekend. He and I made some new friends and had a grand time.
It spun me off into my own memories. I had an old house one time. Tall ceilings, tall windows, wood floors, separate rooms, each leading off to another and back around again. I still wake up at night from dreams of that old house. It still stands, but was relocated and is no longer mine except in my heart and memory and dreams.
My father’s parents had an old house, too. I loved it very much. So many places to hide and to sit and to day dream. My mother’s mother had a garden. Roses, cannas, bananas, elephant ears, and caladiums beside a houdash pond. My mother sewed and quilted and cooked and baked and laughed and talked in this very house where we now live.
See how the memories tumble and spin. One leads to another and I drift along. I do not allow this type of drift very often. The ache gets uncovered in my heart and my eyes sting and blur. It is the very reason my photos sit in piles in boxes. Every so often over the past fifteen years, I have tried to sort through them and get them all organized in albums or something. But, the ache comes and my eyes sting and blur and I have to stop.
I still love old houses and flowers and houdash ponds and quilts and photos and memories.
Light and dark.
Sunlight and shadow.
Hope and memory.
Life and love.