The Funky House
Like an egg cracked open, this battered shell that once housed us is empty and decaying.
By kerosene light, my husband and I grew to know each other inside these peeling walls. I baked my first bread in an old oven here. I chopped wet fir on the front porch in freezing cold rain the year we didn’t put up enough firewood. Here, I learned to change propane tanks and babies.
I was married on the long high finger of land in front of this place as the sun came up.
My middle son was born on a bed surrounded by family here.
My oldest son stood and took his first steps across this floor. Now my youngest brings his friends here to search for forgotten treasures.
It’s no longer liveable but its ugly lines are soft in my eyes.