Sharper than a Double Edged Sword

That charming covered porch where I sat and watched the sun rise, the kids play in the pool, the dog running herself in circles. The garden that I built with my skinny but strong arms, the one the ground hog would decimate in the early morning before I could muster the energy to get up and start the day. Sitting by the pool early in the morning, the sun gently warming my skin as I meditated. It was mine. It was not perfect but it was perfect. My dream home. The light and life flooding the piano room, the perfect place for plants and music. There were so many places to hide away. So much room to stretch. So much inspiration in the details of its 1920s colonial charm. I miss it. Every single inch. Every space. The hedges. The poison ivy. The stubborn weeds. The loudness. The excitement and life despite the chaos. It was mine. The creaky oak floors. The thick wooden baseboards, the whistling and clanging steam radiators. I nearly died making artwork of it all. I nearly lost my son making magic of it all. We all nearly lost ourselves as something deep and dark within that home twisted itself inside of us, refusing to let us go. The memories are so torturous. The sadness so all consuming. It was a dream, and it was all mine. And I lost it to someone who couldn’t love it the way I did. I miss you Beverly Hills House on Sharp, my tiny mansion.