if my heart were a house

Inspired by this poem.

If my heart were a house

There aren't any birds to wake you up in the morning but the sunrise and sound of dogs running across the hardwood floor seem to do the trick. It smells like that apple pie I got from the farmers market and a bath with candles is always ready. It has a Cheaper By the Dozen chaos to it and enough people to match. There is always company. The yard has a giant willow tree in the front, with all my pictures and passed notes and movie tickets hanging from its branches. And the lawn is be covered in bike crashes and and memories and bad dance moves because I can't keep it all inside. There is a room in the basement filled with pillows for the hard times and a room stacked with books for when you're ready to get back up and learn from it all. The bedrooms are always messy. Fresh flowers on all the tables and fresh fruit stockpiled in the fridge. A front porch swings all the way around the house and it has creaky rocking chairs that you made for me and ice lemonade that I made for you. a room with all the scraped knees and broken china and mud tracks, and room where He's fixing it all. The dog is buried in the back. And so is the other one, and the fish, and the sister, and the friend, and everyone else. Instead of headstones we planted yellow roses. In one corner is my grandparent's orchard and in the other is my mother's tomato plants and a pond with a rope swing somewhere in the middle. We never mow the lawn but somehow we never need to. The fireplace cracks a smile and at night there are always fire flies. No fence. It's hard to leave the house, it's harder to leave the yard. But I always bring someone new with me whenever I come back.
In the front there is a door mat saying Finally

is every blog post about starting over?

A lot has been going on. But I am happy to say I am fine. And you are too. Even if you don't feel it. We used to talk about art school and business school and how business school was the easy way and art school was the hard one. Which is ironic because I am majoring in Interior Design because I thought it would be easier than marketing or journalism. But once again I am not sure. This single phrase must be the mantra for every post high school but pre college graduate. And I blame you people. You writers and story tellers and world creators. Addie Lamb has a secret blog and I found it (I'm so sorry for telling you like this) and it reminded me of why I wanted to write in the first place, and it was just like, THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE STUFF I AM TALKING ABOUT THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO DO FOR FOREVER. RIGHT HERE. The same way I felt after reading Mindy Kaling's book and Ellen's and Tina's. What can I say, funny ladies writing memoirs is my weakness. Enough of all this serious mumbo jumbo that I've been trying to do but I keep finding that everyone does it so much better than me. It's fun to read in a weird "omg my heart is breaking and I'm crying but it sounds so beautiful I have to keep reading" sort of way. But it's horribly depressing and agonizing and frustrating to write. I feel like I always had to be brooding and cynical about something. So I am giving up. I'll leave that to the real poets and romantics that I long tried to transform myself into.
I'm not sure what way to end this post, other than to let you know its going to start getting a lot brighter around here.