The porch is walled in coats and boots. Dry mud drifts
into corners.
Paint flakes off in the bathroom's dampest points. New
paint is bought, the tin is under the hand towel pile. Someone has written
algebraic formulas on the mirror.
The kitchen is ridiculous but it works: as long as we
resign ourselves to be always shifting five-gallon tubs of blipping wine. The
cupboards are lined with jam. The rumtopf crock is rinsed of dust and filled:
squats waiting for the winter dark on the top of a cobwebby cupboard.
In the front room two dogs blame each other for that
smell. Things gather in boxes waiting for inspiration, for the extra push.
Up the pleasantly precarious stairs some sweeping is
due.
Boy makes a strike against chaos, reports to have
found some floor space. His door is shut, he shuffles out, sidles the findings:
covert cleaning.
In the office the walls are closing in, in lines of
shelves. Two lap top screens are shining, twenty fingers are typing, in between
the tuttings that signify choices and befuddlement (which word and how to spell
it?)
The larger of the bedrooms has no pictures hung. Blank
space is a luxury; a cream canvas for painting dreams.
Comments
(I don't know what rumtopf is. But that was my jubilant response to your words.)
-A rumtopf is basically a lidded earthenware jar in which to soak fruits in alcohol. Some of them have little stands and taps, ours is basic but a lovely deep red colour. It would make a very generous toast :-)