The House in Heatherwood

[ode]

You stood huge and white,
the Southern Victorian queen
of three grass-green acres;
a dusty driveway snaking through.

Your porch served as a home
to faded rocking chairs,
children eating frozen sweet tea,
and dogs hiding from fireworks.

Your treasures were many:
a sweltering cubby hole filled with stuffed animals,
an attic with cotton candy walls,
and two staircases: one carpet, one oak.

For twelve years you were
our tornado shelter,
the walls for our calendars,
the setting for birthday parties,
and the last place
we were a family.