It was a lovely little house.
Built of white painted timber
and with a gabled roof clad in green tin,
it had never been a rich person's house.
It was her house.
Driving up to park outside it,
was, each time I went there,
like the beginning of a new adventure.
I would always enter by the rickety side gate
and walk through that small garden
that she tended to on weekends,
in the hope that one day,
it might become beautiful.
The back door gave entry to her tiny kitchen
where sometimes she would be,
baking scones or some other treat
for her and me to have later
with some coffee or cheap red wine.
It wasn't a well designed house.
The bathroom and lavatory and laundry
weren't where you might expect.
And most rooms were very small.
But for the living cum dining room.
And her bedroom.
I never counted all the rooms in that house,
I'm not certain I even saw all of them,
but all of those I did see
were furnished and decorated
with pieces that she had shopped for
at garage sales
and in second hand shops.
Except for those things she'd made herself.
There were pictures she had painted,
and other hand crafted knick-knacks
and some bottles filled
with colourful vegetable matter
embalmed in colourful oils and such.
It was a small house and a little quaint.
Her bedroom was of a good size
and her bed large and sumptuous,
with a profusion of richly coloured
cushions and pillows.
We'd discovered one another in that large bed
in that good sized bedroom
in that warm little house.
And it still warms me with it's memories.
For there was nothing inside that house
that she had not chosen.