A House

An old orchard at the end of the garden.  A lumpy lawn where we set up tents in the summer, stayed up all night too scared to sleep and watching the stars creep across the black sky.  The silhouette of the house crouched behind us.  The back door; peeling paint.  The fly-strip hanging over the kitchen counter.  The buzz of bluebottles.  The frying pan always on the stove, encrusted with grease.  The brown teapot, always in use.  The uncarpeted stairs.  The oilcloth on the table.  The rack of pipes on the mantelpiece.  The collected works of Winston Churchill.