Dream House

Clapboards and fieldstone,

Perfect grey shingles —
a house as old as church bells,
as solid as a name.
A Volvo in the driveway,
a little rust on it, but still —
they say you can go home again
but it won’t be the same
I watch the story
through dime-store curtains
as you embrace your father,
take the Jeep and drive away. 
While in my kitchen,
dandelion wine
serves to remind me 
of the passage of these days.
CHORUS: (2x)
This is your dream house
you say this is your dream house,
this is your dream house,
I’m living in your dream house.
Once you told me,
you’d always lived there,
walked past the house I’m living in
and wondered what was inside.
Then you fell silent,
turned away quickly,
I thought I saw the hungry gaze
of a very quiet child.
And if you could
run up the stairs and down the hall,
look out the window
where the hayloft used to be,
would you still dream of it,
see how I’ve grown to love it,
would you then understand it,
understand me?
And in my kitchen,
dandelion wine
serves to remind me 
of the passage of these days.
I wrote this song about 25 years ago when I lived in Oneonta New York in a carriage house dating from probably the late 1800’s. I loved that house, and at one point in my life swore I’d own it someday. 
I’m now back in Oneonta, and it’s different. It’s picked up more of the tourist trade by hosting baseball tournaments — I’m assuming this is farm league, as the Yankees have a farm team here. There are more coffeehouses than there were when I lived here, and more ethnic restaurants, but my favorite hangout still exists (and is owned by someone I used to know).
There’s lots of traffic out on New York 28, whizzing by the bed and breakfast. 
In a perfect world, the stars would align and I would find a way to afford the more expensive housing costs out here. I would retire early and find a job out here, and write in the local (independent) coffeehouse and eat once a week at the Autumn Cafe. I would make new friends at the coffeehouse like I used to, and I would have the carriage house as a writing retreat.
These are dreams, though, and I know reality has a way of exerting itself over dreams.

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