Martha Catherine Ivey
Untitled
It was always a simple place, never pretended to be anything other. Two windows in the front to let in the light and a door to let in the people. Set back from the road a ways near the stand of trees that gave it shade, kept it from being so awful hot when July would turn into a terrible stretch of sticky heat. To return is to see it the way it was, back when it was painted and the grass was kept short and there were curtains in the windows. To return is to see it so painfully small — didn’t it used to be bigger back then? — to realize the way things shrink the longer we are gone from them.
That’s what would happen if someone returned. But nobody does. Abandoned for years, this place stands, reminding no one what it was. It is a home for animals now, a place for vines to stretch and hang. The grass grows wild and tall, rising up unashamed right to the front door. But the trees still keep it cool in July, and the evening light in autumn does what it can to paint the sides. And it’s still a simple place, not pretending to be anything other, waiting, waiting to disappear.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, jamelah and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
