Chestnut House

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…

Under the spreading chestnut tree…

Because you are
only
a seed,
chestnut tree…

I don’t know what drew me here, perhaps it was the poetry that lay dormant in my head or the fact that so many have come here before me.  There are no chestnut trees on Chestnut, but there is a house.

Board and brick, glass and stone, bereft of the apron that once graced its sweet façade giving it a bit of dignity, it called to me and I was willing to wait. 

Eight long months I waited after signing the lease and on the ninth month I moved in, a sort of reverse birthing where the house opened up and enfolded me within its self.

The wooden floors groan under my feet, arching their backs like large wooden cats luxuriating in my presence. 

The walls soak up puddles of light where I read and write imbuing me with warmth.

Curtains create a timelessness within.  It could be 2012 or 1912 or perhaps 1890 during the day when no electric lights disturb this gentle giant.

I thought I would grow to love it over time, but it has grown into me.  We are symbiotic.  I can almost feel its tendrils curling around me, nurturing, protecting, caring for me as I care for it, brushing out the cobwebs, dusting the floors, allowing the scent of spring rains and fall leaves to circulate once more.

Sometimes in the morning, as the sun is just beginning to peep over the edge of the earth I lie here listening to the throbbing of a large heart beating quietly in my ears.  Once I thought it was the laundry downstairs, but I think it is only the house.

Grateful that we have found one another, grateful that someone has come to polish its front doors and chase the spiders away, grateful that my mind’s eye sees the missing porch.

It surrounds me and I embrace it.