You stand firmly westward, built on a foundation of granite blocks, planted in the black soils of the Mississippi. The Builder placed you on a bluff above the only section of the river that flows from East to West, a place where you have a clear view of the land, the smooth waters, and the people who toil on them.
A quiet house, with thick walls and triple-insulated windows, you ward off the unwanted advances of Mid-western winter, settling comfortably under a blanket of snow, thwarting the harsh winds that tear at your roof shingles. When the floods come you are untouched, above the fray, and safe from the water snakes that hang from branches below in the aftermath of it all, snakes that enter only in dreams.
Within your walls, your inhabitants are industrious, always working on a project to improve the slightest malfunction. Never a burned out light bulb, a broken door knob; what gets broken is quickly repaired. And yet, your dwellers live in ordered chaos, stacks of knowledge that have been consumed, or will be soon. You are a thoughtful place with a clear view through large windows. Reflected clouds protect outsiders from seeing in.
Your attic is full, bursting with memories and objects left behind by those who have lived within your walls. Framed photos of Swedes you never knew from the old country, broken lamps, rocking chairs, the lathe that formed the spindles of the staircase leading to this cluttered and emotion-laden place.
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