My house was an old woman who married late but widowed young.
She collected teacups, pennies, and ceramic roosters.
Her garden was always in bloom but she never seemed to mind the peeling paint on the shy white picket fence.
My house was a grandmother in a past life but had somehow missed that episode this time around.
She never found a crossword puzzle she could not best. Some found it disconcerting.
You could tell by the way she moved that she was a dancer when she was young, never a wasted step.
My house never admitted defeat. Even when her veins started to stand out against her sleepy walls and ceilings and people started to talk about “remodeling.” When someone noted her age marks on the ceiling she was sure to point out that they were “beauty marks” and no one refuted her. Most likely because she was never without her knitting needles.
She would not slow; she had flowers to tend to. But eventually the white picket fence came down and the garden was left to