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The old house

The ramshackle structure was an impressionistic smear in the wind, partially obliterated by wind-burned twists of trees, mottled in patches of white paint clinging and bare, pale clapboards.

The pathway was a tangled mess of vines over cracked concrete, morning glories glowing pale purple with blanched green leaves.

The structure gave the impression of lacking, leaving a sense of aching, and yet also of abundance, profusion and self-sufficiency.

I was only a boy when I first saw this place. I didn't have the nerve to come closer yet, but I knew I would come back when the impression had settled in my mind, and I had thought of what I must do and how.
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