Country Home
Megan Young

I'm imagining
a country home for myself,
a quiet corner

of somewhere. It has
old wallpaper on the walls
of the parlor, which

are still splendid with
a light beautiful pattern
like my grandmother

would have loved. Faded
lace curtains pulled back by crème
ribbons lets the light

fall in shafts where the
cats sleep, or keep slit eyes
on the lovebirds in

the old brown wicker
cage. A dinged old teapot calls
from the warm kitchen,

with whitewashed brick walls
and mismatched chairs, and a scuffed
table with knitted

cloth placemats. The bench
under the window holds pots
of flowers, sitting

in the lazy sun,
and metal tubs of green life
are echoed around

the room, some with fresh
herbs for dinner, some just for
the beauty of their

faces. The pantry
is dark, and down a flight of
rickety old stairs.

It's full of the smells
of provisions long since past,
and now-drying herbs.

Another set of
stairs leads up, outside, to the
verandah, with vines

climbing the fences
and the faded sides of the
house. It overlooks

the garden with all
the foods I love and hate:
potatoes and corn,

peas, beans and carrots.
Raspberry bushes grow wild
in the back, ruby

red and delicious.
The cats stalk amongst the plants
- such little tigers.

And always in this
house there's laughing company,
cackling women

who sit around the
table, telling stories and
drinking from old mugs.

They tell of their lives
as they were, their youthful joys,
follies and their loves

lost. And when they go
their voices still echo. And
I'm inundated

by so many lives
while I sit and think in my
parlor by the fire.

Published in Out/Words #3 (view contents)
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