Our Side of the Barbed Wire

Seventeen miles from the city limit sign, down County Road 215 and a left at the fork to an old two lane cow trail, seven miles to the end of the road, sits a house.   A cinnamon brown house with a walk out basement and a two car garage with no doors.  A front door with wind blown steps cluttered around it.  A picture window with the bottom left panel shot out.  An inverted corner kitchen window sitting atop a square of basement covered by a sheet of plywood.  An unfinished basement held up by support beams with insulation hanging down.  A gas stove burning in the corner.  A two bedroom house surrounded by broken down trucks and homestead foundations.  An eat-in kitchen surrounded by caved in wells and BB filled beer cans fallen from the fence posts.  Glass doorknobs and solid doors diminished by 50 gallon trash barrels still ashy from the last burn.

Seventeen miles from the city limit sign, down County Road 215 and a left at the fork to an old two lane cow trail, seven miles to the end of the road, sits a house.  A house that witnessed hell.  A house that watched broken bones and stitches.  A house that watched deadly blizzards and sickly droughts.  A house that watched new subdivisions and fences come up and quickly fall down.  A house that saw fighting and yelling and anger.  A house that caught thrown objects against it’s walls.  A house that steadied falling drunks against it’s floors.  A house that buried secrets in it’s carpets.  A house that shouldn’t be standing.

Seventeen miles from the city limit sign, down County Road 215 and a left at the fork to an old two lane cow trail, seven miles to the end of the road, sits a house.  A house with a bedroom.  A bedroom with red shag and matching blinds.  A house with a kitchen.  A kitchen with broken appliances and 1970’s golden counter tops.  A house with a living room.  A living room with smoke stained walls and a front door that was never used.  A house that used to have people.

Seventeen miles from the city limit sign, down County Road 215 and a left at the fork to an old two lane cow trail, seven miles to the end of the road, sits a house.  A house that I used to come home to.  A house that I used to have a family in.  A house that I slept in and created in and grew in.  A house that I called home for fourteen years.  A house that I would burn.

Seventeen miles from the city limit sign, down County Road 215 and a left at the fork to an old two lane cow trail, seven miles to the end of the road, sits a house.


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