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Click NEXT To start reading. . . Or choose one of the the following.

~  2 Eye of the Beholder  ~   3 Possession  ~   4 Red Wool   ~  5 Adalia  ~  6 The Couch  ~  7 Rocks and Foundations

~ 8 Mistletoe ~ 9 TipToe ~ 10 Columbus (age 9 )  ~  11 Tara (Unfinished) 


 

Rocks and Foundations
by Marsha Steed


Years and even remodeling had not changed the old green house.  Walking into that well loved home, returned my thoughts to a part of me oft forgotten. There she was, the crinkle in the corner of her eyes when she smiled, the silver in her hair, the gesture of her hand, particular to her alone.  It seemed that she never got any older.  Perhaps just a mite slower.    The last few years had been kind to her, but still, they were adding up.
My grandmother looked up from the chair where she had taken to reading.  The door still stuck on one corner, and I still stumbled on that step where they had carpeted right over it all.  I smiled then.  It was an easy smile.  Somehow, it was easy to smile here.  The smells of home were all around me, dust and vegetables, some perfume that I had no idea of its brand, and a filled cookie jar.  The memories manifested in a hundred singular and distinct scents offered in combination.

My children came in and exploded upon the stillness as a firework in the night sky.  Surely they could feel it too.  One child, touching the old piano, sent a lone note lingering through the fondly cluttered familiarity of the living room.  The next one hugged her Great-grandmother and received the expected kiss.  The youngest, always the explorer, rushed off to explore the mystery of the old basement.

How many ghost stories had my aunts and uncles and I told down there?  How many secrets were shared under the thick quilts of the tiny downstairs room?  The coal furnace down in the basement still grumbled as ever.  Though the potato cellar was now just a storage place, I could yet smell the thick rich scent of the indigenous vegetable, the food that was a staple in the lives of my ancestors. 

I turned and looked around myself.  Each picture in its frame and every book that had been in the same place for decade's spoke to me,  and spoke of me.  Relatives both living and passed on smiled from behind the glass.  The volumes of Greek Mythology that was my companion on long summer afternoons, and Freckles'... who tickled the exploring nature of a youthful self, each in turn whispered their greeting.  This house was my center, my returning.  I was molded within its walls, and formed by its contents. . . yet more importantly . . .  I was born of its love. 
 

M Steed---<--{@ Rose '98
Marsha Steed. 

 

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