Layers of Story

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I live in an old stone house.
Its massive limestone walls so thick
one can sit in the windowsills, cross legged.
It has two front doors
which no one can seem to explain
except maybe for the fact that
we all have two doors for
entering our interiors and
this house is just as alive as any person
I’ve ever known.

At one point, plumbing was introduced.
The original footprint of the house didn’t
accommodate for such modernness
so a wood frame addition was added.
And because water has a way of shaping places,
all of the floors now tilt towards the
lowest point.
Over the years, the floor beams
have been shored up from
below with small stone pillars
placed beneath weak areas.
And because I anthropomorphize everything,
I can’t help but think of the Bible story of
Aaron and Hur
who brought stones for Moses to sit
on and who
held up his arms
during battle.
This house is a victor.

This house needs updating
just as anything that lives must evolve and grow.
But damn if it doesn’t have good bones.
And if dust is the accumulation
of all the flecks that have fallen
from the daily–
the walking scratching cutting caressing
shaking still shouting silence
of every last day,
then this house is layered in stories
and it is perfect.

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