Tuesday, February 15, 2011
a happy house
It was her favorite house; the one she dreamed of owning some day. Megan wasn't sure exactly why she loved it so much. She guessed it just looked like a happy house. Like a house where mothers sang their children to sleep and woke them up with kisses. Like a house where birthdays were never forgotten and the walls were happy colors—the pale yellow of the early morning sun and the soft lilac of an evening sky.
When the house was hers she would add a brass mailbox and lace curtains. She'd plant roses and hydrangeas along the foundation. She would paper the sloping attic ceiling with rosebud wallpaper and find two iron beds that just fit underneath. She'd let her daughters share that magic space. She would fill that house with children. Happy children. Children whose mother wouldn't walk away to chase a dream. Children who were their mother's dream. Children who would never know a day without love. Children who would have a better life than hers. It was fierce, this need she had.
And this small, solid house seemed somehow just elastic enough to hold all her dreams.
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