Running through the rain. Dragging my heavy feet as fast as I can manage
I arrive at the old house. The house in which I spent my childhood.
The long halls and over furnished bedrooms. The tall trees and unkempt vines
Those vines that which so desperately cling to its sandstone walls.
I push the old Iron Gate open as fast as I can manage and run up the puddle Covered stones,
Past the neatly trimmed hedges and up onto the wet tiles where the two strong but somewhat eroded lion sculptures guard entry.
I knock stubbornly on the heavy doors.
He promptly answers the door- He used to be taller than me but it seems time has reversed the two.
Always dressed his best. In freshly pressed suit, polished shoes and silver badges he ushers me in concerned of the rain.
We sit in our favorite room next to the marble fireplace.
A thick blanket around my shoulders and a hot tea in my hands,
As my wet hair dries by the fire.
I love the old house.
The creaky oak floorboards. High ceilings. Ornate Lounges and chairs
His old voice is rough and husky yet smooth and melodic
He begins to tell me of distant things.
In half dazed dreams,
Of things that have passed. Old stories I enjoyed as a child re told in their full form. Of first love and bitter heartbreak of the light horse and victory and especially of how things used to be, how much the world has moved on.
I guess that’s why he very rarely leaves the old house as it has always stayed the same. When things have not.
The fire crackling almost in time to his voice which is
Drowned out by the crack of thunder now and then.
I am at complete ease in complete bliss
In silent reverie.
In the old house.
