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  • The House was like a mansion to a six year old. I ran around, finding new, empty spaces, scary spaces. Like the closets - numerous and dark - in a basement full of moldy cobwebs and dead crickets. When tornadoes raged overhead, it became a shelter. But I never wanted to go there. I was more afraid of the closets than the tornado.

    The House hosted numerous birthday parties, my mother's famous spaghetti dinners, Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas mornings. There was a dog, several cats and even a series of flying squirrels. We loved our house and it was part of our family for over forty years.

    The House was my refuge. My safe place. As long as I can remember, it has represented me in my dreams and things happened around the dream version as they were happening around my life. Such as the time after the first divorce, I first fell in love again. I dreamt that there was a huge construction fence around the house, but this new man managed to make his way through and into the house.

    After my Father died, in The House, in his room, which I think for him was also love and shelter and refuge, the place he'd spent so many years with my Mother, then alone. It was the place where he left the world. But through circumstance, he had given the worth of the love and shelter and refuge to a friend to start a business, which failed. And the earthly worth was no more. And my brother and I with heavy hearts, and overworked hands from sifting through 8 decades of a life, walked away. It's still there, now empty. It's old and decrepit, and no one else sees the love and refuge and shelter that we did, It's cold and empty and hollow. No one loves The House anymore, except those of us who remain, and love its memory from a comfortable distance.

    I still dream about The House but now there is a new family in it and they have a small blonde girl, like me, running around, looking for new spaces, and love, shelter, and refuge.
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