Traded in the divorce papers from a rageoholic to an alcoholic,
then painted like a kaleidoscope in a fit of redemption.
Crammed with color and quirky and crazy,
with a thousand books,
and the memories of two kids, four grandkids, and three broken marriages.
All the secrets of seventy years.
It sounds like bossing and cooking and a wood fire burning.
In the morning, it's quiet, but only long enough for you to catch your breath.
It doesn't give a damn about your approval but will stretch to its seams for your comfort.
"How are you?" it says. "And you better be telling me the truth."
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