Will you please look, upon that house, that one time was my home?
The girls would play on the south side, underneath that tree that spread so wide, and calmed and clipped the wind, as it tried so very hard to blow down the side.
On the northern corner the front door stood open most of the time,
Except when flies were bad, or the rain beat its way in, dripping little drips of a day across the linoleum, it’s pattern worn a path where we all walked, and mother had hers in front of the stove, and the kids knew theirs was in front of the sink.
That garage, or to be called a carport, rested Daddy’s ‘49 Ford, driven til the miles didn’t matter, till the strips of silver down the sides had given way to the open rivet holes.
When you look, really really look, you can see that the house was tiny, four rooms made it work, a living room with the propane stove and two couches that slept the boys, the bedroom with three beds, Momma and Daddy’s, the two small boys and that pair of sisters that couldn’t agree.
The shower, the bathroom that was put in about eleven months before the old outhouse was torn down. The kitchen table, rectangle, metal, chairs wrapped around it, and the blood of life running through it.
Not much of a house, but a wonderful place.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Connie Estes
Western Oklahoma
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