A Place to Grow
We always called it “Grandma’s house”
Although Grandpa built it with his carpenters' hands.
As a child, I braved the billowing dry sawdust cloud. Dodging the turbulence of power drills and circular saws. Like a soldier advancing through a war-torn battlefield. To win a pocket full of twisted, saltwater taffy.
The house took him a year to build, done and dusted.
Hard wooden floors, solid oak doors and wainscotting.
An abundance of greenery thirsty for watering.
A warm but slightly worn loveseat, catching the corner sunlight.
Grandma always said the house was never truly finished. Time and again carpet tacks nicked and pricked my feet. Indecisive paint colours changed with the seasons. Once bright now dulled rugs, frayed at the edges.
It wasn’t flawless, but it didn’t need to be.
Two hearts shaped this home in proud harmony.
