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The House in the Dream

Mary Campbell

    I dreamed of the house again, on its golden yellow rise—the white frame house on the Nebraska hillside, snug amid rich, rolling farmland, now rife with corn, falling in quivering green arches to the wide brown river lined with cottonwoods and shrubbery, where the rabbits live. It is early morning, and the sun is just now brushing the broad east porch, conquering the chill with a small, easy sweep.
    The bleached oak floors of the front hallway gleam now, though yesterday they were cluttered with babies and their blocks and their bears, and older children had tea parties under the twin walnut trees that shade the south porch. The house smelled of bubbling cheese and frying onions and chicken baking, seasoned with peppers and my own precious herbs, grown on the broad window and out back, among the stones.
    We played with the blocks, and we played with the bears, and I talked like Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear, and squealed like a very frightened Goldilocks, and sweet voices pealed with laughter and echoed back and forth against the walls, and little arms hugged me, and huge eyes watched while I scratched all their names with a hickory stick in the shady spot that’s always a bit muddy, even in the dry season. Then I made pies from the fat pumpkins that grow in untidy rows behind the spinach and lettuce and tomatoes that thrive because I am the mighty enemy of aphids and spider mites. And the pies are sweet with honey from my own beehives, and with a bit of molasses for bite. The children, and the grownups too, are delighted when I whip sweet cream into thick, sugary clouds to crown each slice, and I don’t skimp because nobody likes to run out of cream before they run out of pie.
    The cousins scrub the pans and plates and rub the glasses to a high shine in the ancient farmhouse sink, mottled white enamel with a small chip in the drainboard; and someone sweeps the crumbs that fell beneath the old oak table. The children grow quiet with their books and bears and blankets, and the grownups have a glass of light, clear Brownville wine, or coffee, rich and black from a climate where the sun burns hot but shade is plentiful. A breeze whispers messages from heaven: “joy” and “bliss” and “peace.” And night falls but cannot break the skin of happiness.
    Now, in the dawn, the house is too quiet, too tidy, and I long for the busy noise of little feet slipping up and down, up and down the stairs on important errands—fetching paper and crayons, this trip, it seems; and for the echo of voices off the polished oak. And then I smile, for today I may prune roses and clip hollyhocks for lush bouquets, and fight with aphids, and write stories, and select the best pumpkins for the gold-brown pies for next time.
    But I wake up in the dark, alone, and wonder,
    who am I to dream such dreams of white
    farmhouse and close family?



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