i can't believe it. the house is gone. burned down. burned up.
nothing left of our old home but smoke and stones and memories.
my first memories are in that house. i was a baby in that house.
how can a thing made of wood and stone- oh, and beautiful old fieldstone it was, too-
be so precious?
how can rooms be remembered so fondly...
how can a green lawn in summer and a white wasteland in winter have so much meaning in our lives?
how can a staircase scarred and worn by little feet be gone??????
how can those lovely french doors that mom loved so much be burned up?
the veranda- always felt 'new' to me- dad worked so hard on making that beautiful sunroom for mom- gone?
the kitchen where geraniums bloomed in the windows all winter long
and mom's lace curtains swayed in the summer and winter breeze ...
the beds and closets and butterfly wallpaper and green paint and handmade quilts and ...and...
hard to believe.
dear little house.
it seemed so massive when we were little.
the front door slammed with every child rushing in and out...shoes scattered on the entryway landing...
the fireplace chimney, they say, is standing, but will be torn down.
those beautiful old stones, thrown out again into the field from whence they came.
perhaps they are happy, those old stones- perhaps they are saying to themselves,
"well, it's been a good century, but it's time to go back home now",
and they allow themselves to be tossed
back into the black earth of those manitoba fields.
goodbye, dear house.
you sheltered us well.
we will never forget you.