Farm House - A Valentine Entry

Love in Minnesota.... I should post something on Valentines, shouldn't I?  Because of technical difficulties this entry was not posted on Valentines.  But... Here it is.  This is my interpretation of the sort of Valentine love I hope for. Cheers to all those who have it.  Cheers to all those who hope for it.  Cheers to all those who want world peace instead.  Cheers.

Farm House

Somewhere there’s an old farm house full of ghosts who want me to live with them, and I can’t wait to come home to it.

I’m not sure what my future holds.  I drive a car that is undoubtedly a curse and a punishment, and I live pay check to pay check wondering when I’m going to have to sell my soul to the devil to pay my debts.  I’m better off than I used to be, but I wonder if I’m ever going to come home to a house, come home to a lover and best friend, come home to a place that doesn’t feel like a box of demons and solitude.  I keep writing in hopes that I can sell myself on the corner with my talent and succeed in attaining the normal contentment that most people know but take for granted.  You can only work your day job for so long...

I know I’m a little unorthodox in most areas of my life, but my domestic love language just wants to cook food and make people happy with it. I want to fry up pancakes for that man I wake up with.  That is such a simple request to the universe, but it’s hard to see it as a reality.  No pancakes for you, love.  Sorry.  Just a box of demons and solitude. 

There is an element of myself that seems to scream at contenders, “GO AWAY!” I’m apparently not good at this.  I try to be humble and tell myself I’m just ugly.  But the not so humble part of myself says, “They’re too shallow or stupid to get it.” 

I want that farm house.  I want the iron skillet and the wood stove.  I want a dining table that seats twelve people.  I want my kids to have a tire swing and a clothes line.  I want to hang bottles from a tree and see ghosts in the kitchen.  I want to make love in an old bed that squeaks while the dawn of the day spreads its spring glory on our wooden floor.  I want quilts.  I want the door knobs to be over a hundred years old, and I want the staircase to be so steep that you have to be careful walking down it.  I want rooms that make no sense, and I want a backyard full of summer sun and sweet memories that make me cry. 

I do not know why this is important to me, but it is.  It is frivolous in its own right.  I have a good life.  I am grateful for all the healthy things in my life and my spoiled treasures and luxuries.  But I can’t stop dreaming about my farm house and how all my voids could be filled if I could only cook pancakes on a wood stove for a man that I love for life.