Several of my relatives are kin to Shakespeare and came to America. I decorate and do architecture as a hobby, a way to relax. This home is in Boston. I like the scale of this house, especially the bottom level which I see as a cabin – with fireplace. This is a million dollar house, but the ceilings are worth every penny, and the worn brick floor and walls.
The bench will go along the window by the French doors, with recliner next to it, and lamp on top. No more pretending there is enough space for a man to put down his things, things that won’t be swept up by a moody and tidal woman, and put where you can’t find them.
I see the day bed with plaid, as a birth on a ship from Scotland. This is where I curl-up before a warm fire for the last voyage in my red, white, and blue blanket. My head rests on a midnight pillow with lamp-lit windows broadcasting the thoughts of men.
The whistle from a tea kettle on the stove is like the cat I want to own. I pay attention, without having to feed anything, but myself. There is almost too much room for me. There is a garden just outside the door. Shall I plant a patch of mint?
If I am not mistaken there is someone playing my piano upstairs. I made a promise so long ago to meet her. Perhaps I did. My perfect love. My perfect little house…..and thou.
John
Rosamond Press 
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