Sixteen Doors

I don’t want to think about the virus anymore

The thought of dying is hard to swallow

Instead I will think about the house built in 1935

The quirky one with sixteen doors

The meandering halls

The wooden floor

The heirloom flowers blooming without rhyme or reason

The mountains gaze at me from rooms with windows

I gaze back

And the sun lazily drifts down and lies across the fields captured in my mind’s eye

If I die, it will never be mine

But fate says no

For etched on a beam

“Just for you”

I take it for true

Until then,

I close myself inside

Incessantly easing fate my way

To the curved gravel drive

Leading to the house

That feels remarkably connected to me in 1935.