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A house is not a home

 

The Realtor called this morning, mid coffee.  Someone wants to see my house.

So, I run about, getting the place ready for buyers, once again, once again….Start the vacuum, scare the piss out of the cats (they’ll never forgive me).  Dust and polish those floors.  Spray the covers with a little scent.  Hide all of those small things that might betray the fact that we lived here.  Straighten the broom closet, sweep up the cat crumbs.  A foreign neatness of sorts.  We slobs are not used to this.  Go and buy a nice plant to sit outside the front door.  Welcome, welcome.  They say a good idea is to put a pot of coffee on to simmer, before you slip quietly out the front door.  An enticing smell.  To some.  A tray of cookies, labelled “please help yourself”.

But, the last thing I do, I don’t know why, is to turn that vase of sunflowers just a little, to show its best side.  I move to clean up its fallen petals, then stop.  Leave them there.  Don’t you know it’s Van Gogh?

At least someone cared.

Lee Dunn View All

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

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