The House I lived In
It seemed so much bigger when I was little. The house was everything. The whole world ... the universe in fact. I sat in a maple wood high chair my father made for me and I listened to my mother singing soft and low across the room as she made our supper on a wood burning stove. Everything was here, there was nothing else.
Then I stared across the vast empty space of our one room house, the house we lived in. There was a big bed in the corner, the bed my mother and father slept in, with a small crib at the side. There was a pine table in the middle of the room with two ladder backed pine chairs. Two candles burned on the table and two more by the kitchen stove. There was a bucket of split kindling at the side.
I seem to remember a hooked rug that lay on the floor between the bed and the table. I learned to walk on this rug. From the bed to the table back and forth, again and again ... until I got it right. There was a picture on the wall of an Indian on a horse, and through all the years of my infancy it was the only clue to the fact there was life outside the four walls of the house I lived in. This was my world, immeasurable ... as boundless and infinite as the universe itself.
When I got my legs under me I walked to the door and opened it ... there I saw the fields and distant mountains. I looked up and saw the sky with castle clouds and stars too numerous for counting.
The house I knew became too small to hold me ... smaller than a house to hold a bird, especially a bird who has seen the stars.