House Sitting

I sit at the counter and my long legs dangle from the tall chair. My hand brings the small blue and white mug to my mouth, feeding it with cooling coffee, as my eyes pour over each word on the page. I pause.



I hear the soft ticking of the clock behind me, marking each passing second. I let my eyes focus where they blindly stared and I see the roads of lights making their path across the wall, hiding and illuminating the large blue and green painting. The beams hit the clouds.

I think about how many hours I have spent in this home. Helping my best friend to maneuver her crutches, making breakfast, sitting out by the pool in the quiet of the morning. Plugging in my computer and situating myself at the study table for hours as I methodically typed each word of poetry paper. Laughing in the hot tub. Falling asleep trying to make it through West Side Story. Crying through Dead Poet's Society. Soaking up each jab and tease as the baby is passed around and Easter dinner is prepared. And the best of all: Walking through the glass enclosed room, the house exposed, and finding people hidden everywhere. Tea pot filled, tea cups prepared. Sandwiches waiting. Gifts piled up. Waiting for me. Waiting to celebrate my impending marriage.


I love the feeling of my sock-clothed feet padding, and occasionally sliding, across the tiled floor. I love the wooden ceiling, and the beams everywhere. I love the memories that I was welcomed into here. Invited to take part in. An open home--where light streams in from the skylights--was opened up to me. And today I just sit here, letting my fingers pluck away at the piano, wondering with Watts. "Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were a present far too small."