House Full of Thinking

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My house is unlike any other yet all the same, at least said by my mother. It is for first impressions, she adds. But I just smile, shaking my head no, muttering it is for free expressions. My home is not a house. It is big and open but cluttered. Every room is icy cold. Except for the few feet surrounding the fireplace. I miss my old home. It is not mine anymore. It is just a house. I miss how the sunlight would spill in through the front glass door. The reading that would take place in the parlor, with the deep red wall, all the rest white. The red perfectly crisp against the rest of the room. I miss the small pond out in the back with a single fish. The window in my room that led to the roof, where I would sit and think about the world.
About the trees
And the sky
The bees
And the flies
God
And the fish in the pond.





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