Haunted by a House

I am haunted by a house,

a mausoleum that has my name etched into its mortar.

It enchants me every time I tour a house, the open concept I see muddles with visions of a fireplace and brick walls, and in the air I hear a whisper,

“Come in.”

I try to trace out the house that haunts me,

plotting out the foundation over and over,

but I am not an architect,

and the model of this house falls apart,

leaving me in ruins.

It knocks against reason, a house cannot haunt a person.

But I am shown fog on a mirror with the name “Home,” being written out in silver,

impressed into the condensation without any sign of the writer.

I wake up to the creaks of wooden floors, I am pinned down in bed as if the feet I hear walking around are treading over my body, staring up at the ceiling,

I wonder, will I ever find you?

The market is vast, I have looked at houses on the river, off an island,

in between skyscrapers,

and dreams are the same too,

catacombs of memory filed manically,

a turn down Aisle 5 in the grocery store transitions into trudging through waist high grass in a wildflower freckled meadow, mocked by sparrows that swoop above me in a Carolina Blue sky. I reach out to them, now stretching out to the wallpaper that lines the hallway walls like a cage, I drag my fingers over them, playing guitar strings, tuning into the rasp of my fingertips brushing the pattern, which whisper, “I am so happy that you are here.”

I stop to listen as a voice interrupts the enchantment;

a golden light seeps under a doorframe like water.

The baritone voice of a man mutters methodically behind it,

Listening to portions of his warbled words, I stitch together that he is reading the Velveteen Rabbit and is now at the point where Rabbit comes to life.

The man’s voice soft as the magic unfolds, I lean into the door, a child yawns, the man chuckles, under my fingertips I can feel wood tap the door against my fingers.

My finger is on the pulse - I know this house like my body,

but it has changed so much since I last listened to this story -

The light is extinguished in order of the book closing.

I am sleeping, the mattress creaks as my younger body shifts.

I jolt as the doorknob tilts its bald head,

I see a sliver of the room as the door begins to open,

a collared shirt appears from the dark,

“See you in the morning,” the man says. A blue eye winks at me.

Tears well in my eyes, I can’t believe - it can’t be -

I am peeling remnants of a cobweb from my eyelashes, my welcome after crossing the threshold and breaking the seal, now dazed in the light that burns into empty rooms.

Floorboards creak under my feet,

I am entrapped in the idea

that I am following someone-

Two mockingbirds raise their heads to us,

stretching their gray necks to look me in the eyes, perching tall on their taloned toes as they teeter on the window sill,

their eyes glinting in excitement.

No, houses don’t haunt, they hope, by the people who once wandered these rooms.

Pressure like arms wrapped around my shoulders melds to me

my senses fill with the clean scent of fresh laundry -

my chest tightens as I am pulled into the veil of dream and reality,

an allowance to pull away the veil to see friendly spirits.

This house is not a mausoleum,

it is a church,

a body of miracles.

“I see you,” I say.

I swear, a bird winks, and in an instant, the pair springs in celebration of being recognized,

chattering in excitement as they fly to the wispy clouds in the sky.

Now I mascaraed with memories that unfurl in the house like ribbon, telephone wires, and thread of Afghan blankets,

decorating the rooms with the fabric of lives lived and lives still living,

walking in their footsteps, wading through our lineage of string,

as I look for signs of their next visit;

mockingbirds, heart shaped wood rings, and heirlooms

in our home.

*

In late June, my husband and I bought my Grandma’s house. I had spent most of my childhood visiting her house, and when the chance came for us to buy the house, we took it. I am very thankful that we did. Not only do I we have the opportunity to revitalize the house with new memories, I see signs left behind by my grandparents, such as creatively placed hearts, as seen below.

(We had to have a tree cut down, uncovering this heart (bottom trunk)).

(From closing: We notice the heart in the curtain after this picture was taken! )