A Little House of Memories

It was a lovely little house. Built of white painted timber, with a gabled roof clad in green tin, it had never been a rich person's house. It was her house. And driving up to park outside it, each time I went there, was like the beginning of a new adventure. I would always enter by the rickety side gate and walk through that small garden she tended to on weekends, in the hope that one day it might become beautiful. The back door gave entry to her tiny kitchen where, sometimes she would be, baking scones or some other treat for her and me to have later with some coffee or cheap red wine. It wasn't a well designed house. The bathroom and lavatory and laundry weren't where you might expect. And most rooms were very small. But for the living cum dining room. And her bedroom. I never counted all the rooms in that house. I'm not certain I even saw all of them. But all of those I did see were furnished and decorated with pieces that she had shopped for at garage sales and in second hand shops. Except for those things that she had made herself. There were pictures she painted, and other hand crafted knick-knacks. And some bottles filled with interesting vegetable matter embalmed in colourful oils and such. It was a small house and a little quaint. But beautiful. And warm. Her bedroom was of a good size and her bed was large and sumptuous, with a profusion of richly coloured cushions and pillows. We'd discovered one another in that large bed, in that good sized bedroom, in that warm little house, that still warms me with it's memories. For there was nothing inside that house that she had not chosen.