Perfectly Imperfect

Her old, lovely bones breathe

warped and creaking

with visions of what she could be

and past pitter-patters of

Saturday morning cartoons,

sleepovers, and birthdays.

 

She shelters me,

never passing judgement

should I sleep in on a Saturday.

 

Within her old, lovely bones,

I carved out a space for myself,

panting it in blues

impressed upon nostalgia from

the bluest oceans, coves, and depths;

when sunbeams enter on perfect angles,

my lungs fill with briny air of days long gone.

 

Her galley is a patchwork antiquated mess;

shams shimmied together in muddled nonsense

resembling the before photos of a makeover

that hasn’t happened yet, and

probably won’t for some time.

 

It gives her old bones character,

like an endearingly gapped-tooth

or the slurring lisp of a loved one.

 

Her living room, where I do

my least amount of living,

ties everything together.

 

Her redone floorboards

are coming undone

at some of the seams,

 

I can’t put too-positive a spin on floor damage

because they were expensive to redo,

though I do I blame the ghosts

of rambunctious children I’ve never met

pounding her hapless floors

running through their home,

before it became mine,

their laughter I’ve never heard

reverbing off the not-yet-blue walls.

 

This old girl shifts and creaks weirdly at times,

but she also whispers me to sleep

when rain pours onto her roof.

 

She is drafty and scantily insulated, but

she’s also a cool respite in sweltering summers.

 

She is unfortunately imperfect

and I’m perfectly lucky to have her.

 

Just beyond her walls though, I hear

there is a garden full of dead or dying foliage

that desperately needs tending,

but I don’t entertain such baseless rumors.

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads Hope and the Places That Heal You, hosted by  Sherry Blue Sky. Drop by and visit the other toads contributing to the pond!