What Lucy Built

There's something about standing in an empty, curtainless house, catching light in all directions. An old house, one that used to hold things I now use in my apartment: tea cups, vases, bedside tables. The one where my mother first learned to bake a cake, my grandmother made dresses, my grandfather sold gas and candy to driversby. Two store front windows later framed Mammaw's sewing machine and my mother's wrought iron bed. We'd park in the gravel and skip up the side walk. A yellow jacket once stung my cheek upon opening the screen door. The place still smells of moth balls and Red Man tobacco. It's something like home.

Being there means dreaming back and forth, wondering what will be of this house and if it will include me. Regardless, in my mind, I trim the shrubs, plant gardens, paint the shutters green. I sip coffee on the side porch and the trees wave sun and shadows over my face. They are old and have seen three generations sit there and throw wishes into their branches.



It's common to get caught in the future. In our minds, we run sprints to the end of the present and crank our necks trying to see what comes next. Whether the impulse grows from excitement or boredom, we miss out on the fruits of the moment, which reminds me of a lovely poem by Wendell Berry.


What We Need Is Here

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.


Before I left the house that day, I pulled the low-hanging light bulb string and climbed the stairwell. In one of the small bedrooms, stacks of hat boxes lined the walls. I ran my finger through the dust coating one of them and opened it to find a fine, fancy hat adorned with feathers and black netting. Naturally, I put it on and walked over to the abandoned vanity. There, in the dingy reflection was Mammaw's hat sitting on my head five sizes small. And naturally, I missed her and her little head in a house begging to be made a part of someone's present. But mixed somewhere in the rustling trees and floorboard creeks, Berry's words soothed me: What we need is here. What we need is here.



xo Corrie Lynn