*picture taken by Grace Ramsey*
It's only a small one.
It consists of several pictures, pictures of gentle images and sentimental emotions. I dream of one day walking up a lovely, quiet country lane, or a short, quaint walk, to a small house, an old fashioned, sweet little house, with yellow walls and white curving swirls of wood framing the edges of the porch. The white planks of the porch floor echo beneath my feet and the summer day is washed in a dreamlike stillness.
Inside, the forms of the walls, the antique furnishings, and quiet coverings of the floor are laced in vagueness, like a blurred picture, waiting to be sharpened with the advent of time.
There are warm, comfortable rooms, and quiet, sun drenched ones, sitting rooms with braided rugs and bedrooms with homey quilts. There are windows everywhere and the sun pours in to fill the air with light. Curtains hang before them, to shield the furniture and soften the shape of the walls.
The clarity of the interior of my little house remains in obscurity. I can't see precisely how it will look. But I can see the dim outlines of the people that will be there, and the things that will fill my shelves. I can see a small kitchen table and a small kitchen chair, a figure there, awaiting the care I so long to give him, smelling the smells of my kitchen, smiling when I smile at him.
*picture taken by James Ramsey*
That is my dream, only a simple one. It is a dream of quaint little house, and the man of my heart's longing within it.