by Kitty Murphy

Created on: April 22, 2008

The foundation of the centuries old house creaks in the wind. It yawns, an open gaping wound in the ancient farmland of an upstate New York very small town. I sit dejectedly, upon the stones so carefully stacked one on top of the other, long long ago, forming a foundation built strong, to withstand the harsh elements of years gone by. Wind, always the wind here, whistling through the blackened fallen eaves, rustles a few half-burned notebooks that once belonged to my daughter. Pieces of a child's bedroom curtain flutter past, the brown edges now spoiled against the white. A broken cup, half a pot, twisted bedsprings jut angrily past the blackened refrigerator. The horrible stench of burned wet wood still hangs everywhere. I turn my back on the heart-wrenching destruction, determined to remember this sacred place for what it was. The happy home of a loving family. The place where I raised my children. The place they still call home.

Amidst the destruction I sense the ghosts of their abruptly ended childhood. I hear voices, lullabies, carols and wind up toys. I see the stricken faces of my neighbors, the mail carrier handing me the days mail giving her condolences, my friends, the firemen gently pushing me away, begging me to leave them to their work. I see my family sadly digging through the rubble, searching for fragments of a shared history. I see my teenage son, standing at the edge of the property, hands thrust deep into sweatshirt pockets his back shaking with with the effort to control his feelings at the loss of his shortened boyhood.

Shaking my head as if to shed these unpleasant thoughts, I take a seat on the old foundation, funny how it still feels so strong, so capable. Looking outward now, I see the springtime vista of new baby green grass shoots, tiny corn plants gazing heavenward, hoping for a drop of rain. The purple mountains, shrouded in mist, the pleasant productive sound of a tractor chugging away in the background. The harsh aroma of manure mixed with the scents of budding lilacs assaults my nostrils and brings tears to my eyes.

In my minds eye I see children swinging from that willow tree over there. They grab the low branches and run with them, leaping joyfully into the air and letting their feet drag along the ground. They climb up to the landing in the center of the great tree, and one by one jump the three feet to the ground. A pre-teen girl sits there, her back cozied up to the trunk chews on a pencil and writes in her journal. She

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