The House At The End Of The Road
Maybe one day I’ll buy back my grandmothers house. The house on the cliff overlooking the river. Where you’d see bald eagles sitting in the pines from time to time, on the other side of the canyon. It probably won’t look the same inside. The people living there in the interim will probably have got rid of the yellow shag carpets. Maybe updated some of the dark panelling on the walls. And it probably won’t smell the same. That inexplicable scent of bread and lanolin and things I can’t place. If ever I smell that smell again I’ll be thrown back in time to sitting on the shaggy floor of the living room, rearranging Grandma’s collection of brass bells, with Oklahoma on the record player and sunlight streaming through the windows. I’m sure whoever lives there now has the yard looking lush and full of plants. That thought makes me happy. I’d keep growing things. I’d grow tomatoes in pots and make a new flower bed where the sandbox and swing used to be. The wooden swing my grandfather b
