Imagine This

Nash

My chest swelled with every breath, the clearness filling my body. The air was almost cool, the visions soothing to my eyes. The gentle hills and the higher slopes- the thick trees covering the treehouse hill houses. They gazed down imperiously, the tall windows staring back as if to ask what I was doing there. My phone went out of signal, the cut off from the world a release. I didn't have to do anything- I didn't have to catch up or make sure that I wasn't wasting my time. A dog scampered off the road as the van rolled by, his attitude not welcoming but curious. Why were we here?

The farm came into sight around the deep bend, mules kicking up dirt on one side. Everything around us was quiet, but not still. It felt like the water trickling past underneath the little bridge to the house-steady and reassuring. A broad field opened out to the yard and two white barns. A black chevy decorated the slope to the grill in front of the barn. Dancing fairy bulbs waved in the breeze near the clearing of the field and the willow tree shaded half of the yard with its boughs.

We took off in the van again when we had to visit, the only pressure was to see several people before we left. When we rolled into the driveway, the gate code beeped at us to let us through the black wrought iron fence and then closed behind us as we climbed the little sloping hill to the house. A log house mansion came into view, two matching barns tucked away behind it and a circular drive gracing the front. The front door creaked open, the floorboards signaling our approach with every heeled step. The house remained the same comfortable silence, each room wrapped in golden light filtering the windows. It became a grayish warmth, the sun disappearing behind clouds and the metal roof became humming with the heavy rainfall. The kitchen was lit by several lights overhanging the island where the wine was kept, small chickens painted or sitting on shelves near the teacups. The sunroom opened widely by the french doors and side windows let in the grayed light the most, the garden in full view and the rain soaking everything dark brown and dark green. The scent of pipe tobacco and cigar smoke lingered in the air, along with a faint herbal lemongrass of the soap used. The floorboards creaked with every step as we crossed over into the living room and then the study, the lights refusing to turn on for just a moment. Dark wood rose up into the tall wooden beams of the ceiling, mahogany and dark brown leather filling up the rest of the space. A red rug carpeted the floor to the side door out to the porch and the two windows heavily draped to keep out the woodland animals' eyes. The desk was the focal point of the room, leather books stacked neatly on the desk and a planner still sat with his handwriting scrawled across. His scent and memory still clung to the room and I felt slightly evasive for wanting to see his old poetry journal in his drawer. The fireplace stuck out of the wall in a flat white like the rest of the room, a priceless adorned saddle to my left of the desk. When the lamp was turned on, a side cupboard was revealed with many awards from his business ventures and two statues of wrestlers-a tribute to his profession. The saddle glowed in the light, rich reds and browns and spiced pumpkin colors swirled on the saddle, the horn lifted as if to seat a large man. While they talked on around me about his final days, I leafed through the fragile pages of his poetry, the scrawls and phrases and bits of inspiration jumping out at me. Is this where I got it from? The notebooks and trying to see more than the eye could at first? I read over briefly, the stories of cities in the night and cruises dancing off the pages. I could feel his cigar smoke curling around him, the little cowboy boots propped up on a footstool listening to that soul singer. I closed the book, and slipped out of the room to let the darkness without the lamps fall over it to rest in peace, and I couldn't help but feel like someday I'd be back and maybe I would be typing on the typewriter at that desk when I did return.