I’ve been coming back
since I was a boy.
At some point the dreams started
becoming more real
than I was comfortable with:
I’d wake up
on the front lawn, covered
in grass. Everything looks too normal.
Sometimes someone’s walking
in the front hall; other times
there is no front hall. The whole first floor
is like one of those roadside attractions
in South Texas. Each room
leads to another room, like a map
always a step ahead
of its cartographer.
The first time this house was built
it didn’t survive the Civil War.
It was just a carriage stall—but still,
must’ve been awful for the stall boys.
At least they woke up before their beds
would have burned them alive.
That’s the story, anyway.
After the ash was cleared,
a famous singer planted
the seed of our house.
She even hosted the town’s first party.
Then she sold it
from the history books.
It’s unsettling how easily that happens.
How even a house
can become a story.
How even stories disappear
when you’re looking somewhere else.