THE BUNGALOW OF ORPHANED DREAMS

This morning belongs to me.

The crystal-clear sunny sky and extremely chilly air are known only to me, just inside my head. Of course, I know that the morning belongs to everybody else, too. But I can only report what comes before me.

I drive west on First Avenue North and scan both sides of the road, as catch can. I scan as catch can while trying to keep my car in its assigned lane. But I can’t help being impressed by the gifts each roadside image provides.

For example, there’s a Victorian house feeling its age. It rests silently, the very picture of a bungalow of orphaned dreams. It rests silently, awaiting its fate. Its fate as a restoration. Its fate as a demolition. Its fate as a flip project. Its fate as a parking lot.

I drive on, trying to dis-remember that ignored home. I cannot ignore the fact that it is even older than I. I cannot ignore the fact that I, too, may be a fleshy container of orphaned dreams, lightly stirred with current life, shaken occasionally with intimations of mortality.

But what a beautiful house it still is. If I stop to stare, I can see evidence of a lovely, long life. I can imagine the joys and challenges to which this structure has been subjected for many decades. I can wonder about the lives that have come and gone over such a long period.

I drive past and onward to the morning’s westward destination. Now and then I look right and left for more signs of orphaned dreams

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.