got inspired
goodbye house.
thanks for the only bedroom with a lock on it, if only because it used to be the bathroom. thanks for the huge backyard, the ancient, enormous maple trees that glowed in the spring and fall and slept peacefully in winter, thanks and the swings and jungle gym. thanks for the creaky stairs and the warm fireplace when the heat went out in the winter. thanks for the rooftop right out of my bedroom window, for burning in the sun ("sunbathing") or watching meteor showers or smoking weed. thanks for the musty, useless basement that housed cobwebbed exercise machines, old furniture, dusty glassware and a black light air hockey table. thanks for the ever abundant bookshelves, groaning under the ever-growing collection of travel, gardening and cooking books as well as decorative vases from yardsales. thanks for the stifling hot or freezing attic which never turned into a hangout space despite many attempts, and thanks for the big counters to climb on and cook on. thanks for the big white sink i was bathed in as a baby that looks out onto the front yard, with the rusty broken thermostat by the window. thanks for the mysterious, damp, old barn with nails on the floor and deer heads and sleds and yellow, 30's newspaper on the walls and the chicken coop where we put our bicycles. thanks for the bathroom mirrors in which i ached and prodded and pinched myself, and crimped my hair for my first date. thanks for the big bathtub with the broken jacuzzi. thanks for the silly bedrooms, the jungle themes with mosquito netting, the midnight glade themes with stars on the ceiling and the ever burning light when i get scared of the dark. thanks for the linoleum and hardwood floors, scratched from the dog's paws, and thanks for the thread-bare oriental rugs. thanks for the treasures we found in the walls like the bird skeleton and the paper dolls and the portrait of two penguins; and thanks for the holes in the walls that we fixed and the back porch that we built, and the vines that creeped and bloomed. thanks for those old cement stairs that used to grow moss, and thanks for the brick walkway my mom put in by hand after watching martha stewart. thanks for all the mice and bats and deer in the woods out back and thanks for the gardens. thanks for the hiding places and for scaring me and keeping me safe. thanks for the back porch light every time i came in late. thanks for being everything we made you and everything we needed. thanks for the front porch on summer nights, watching the thunderstorms roll in.
thanks for the only bedroom with a lock on it, if only because it used to be the bathroom. thanks for the huge backyard, the ancient, enormous maple trees that glowed in the spring and fall and slept peacefully in winter, thanks and the swings and jungle gym. thanks for the creaky stairs and the warm fireplace when the heat went out in the winter. thanks for the rooftop right out of my bedroom window, for burning in the sun ("sunbathing") or watching meteor showers or smoking weed. thanks for the musty, useless basement that housed cobwebbed exercise machines, old furniture, dusty glassware and a black light air hockey table. thanks for the ever abundant bookshelves, groaning under the ever-growing collection of travel, gardening and cooking books as well as decorative vases from yardsales. thanks for the stifling hot or freezing attic which never turned into a hangout space despite many attempts, and thanks for the big counters to climb on and cook on. thanks for the big white sink i was bathed in as a baby that looks out onto the front yard, with the rusty broken thermostat by the window. thanks for the mysterious, damp, old barn with nails on the floor and deer heads and sleds and yellow, 30's newspaper on the walls and the chicken coop where we put our bicycles. thanks for the bathroom mirrors in which i ached and prodded and pinched myself, and crimped my hair for my first date. thanks for the big bathtub with the broken jacuzzi. thanks for the silly bedrooms, the jungle themes with mosquito netting, the midnight glade themes with stars on the ceiling and the ever burning light when i get scared of the dark. thanks for the linoleum and hardwood floors, scratched from the dog's paws, and thanks for the thread-bare oriental rugs. thanks for the treasures we found in the walls like the bird skeleton and the paper dolls and the portrait of two penguins; and thanks for the holes in the walls that we fixed and the back porch that we built, and the vines that creeped and bloomed. thanks for those old cement stairs that used to grow moss, and thanks for the brick walkway my mom put in by hand after watching martha stewart. thanks for all the mice and bats and deer in the woods out back and thanks for the gardens. thanks for the hiding places and for scaring me and keeping me safe. thanks for the back porch light every time i came in late. thanks for being everything we made you and everything we needed. thanks for the front porch on summer nights, watching the thunderstorms roll in.