This House
This house is an old house,
built in 1929 as one of many
of the same types of houses,
attached on one side, a thin alley
on the other.
This house has a red door, three bedrooms
and a wildlife-filled green backyard.
One time I heard my neighbour (who has a house
just like ours) call her house a shoebox.
I understand but I don’t understand because
though this house is small for a house,
it has everything needed for a family of four.
It has rooms bright with light, two staircases,
two bathrooms and places to sit and talk and have coffee.
Sometimes I walk through this house
after 28 years, and I am still overwhelmed
by its grace – warm and inviting,
ample. I never get tired of this house.
Sometimes secretly I tell it thank you
and kiss its exposed brick wall.
This house is not a house but a family member.
She is maternal, and was a gift from
my mother. We moved here
just before our daughter turned one.
Three years later, our son was born.
This house is a protector and also has a temper.
If we tread too far into darkness, it explodes.
One time a sewer pipe burst in the basement.
It was the right time, and a wake-up call.
Once we also had a wasp infestation,
wasps living in the walls. We needed to clean.
Then we needed to reclaim.
When I first saw this house I fell in love with her.
I have lived in many houses –
nine before I became a teenager,
and many more than ten after that.
But this was the only house I loved, the only home
I have ever truly had. The ones I lived in as a child
in Montreal were fine, but I felt nothing for them.
The one that looked out over the lake, I hated.
Even though my parents loved it, I knew
it had a soiled energy, something within it
that was deliberately vindictive, unkind. After that,
there were slews of apartments, some cold,
some hostile, none ever, a place to rest.
The couple and their golden retriever
who lived here before us, loved this house too.
They never wanted to move, but had to because
there was a medical condition, and there were stairs.
The woman who lived here painted hidden hearts
throughout the house, and she carved a heart on
the wooden backyard shed. The hearts
have been painted over and the shed is new,
but the vines she painted on the front porch walls
remain and I never want to paint over them.
My husband loves this house, and our children do too.
My daughter no longer lives in this house
but she still calls it home, and she still has her own room.
This house is so perfect, that my adult son
said to me “Sometimes I think, living here,
I am living in a beautiful dream.”
This house has also been home to many creatures,
to eight cats, a dog, a bird, two rats and two guinea pigs.
They have all been happy here, and sometimes I swear
it was like living in a Disney movie –
their furred or feathered bodies in sync,
affectionate, playful, merged.
This house is in need of many repairs.
It has had some repairs but needs more.
She is an old lady, a gentle but strong spirit.
She is a comfort, a sanctuary, a refuge.
This house is our house
and I will take care of her
as she has taken care of us –
holding us between her walls,
still holding us, for decades now
giving us space to foster love and breathe.
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Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2026
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Synchronized Chaos” October 2026
https://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-18/
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You can listen to the poem below:
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