A house, that same house again--the gigantic old house with half a dozen staircases, twists and turns, secret doors, and a musty old smell. This is a house I dream about often. I often have dreams about exploring it's many different passageways and secrets. There are antiques everywhere and I sometimes feel like it's Wanda and Bob Holmes' house--my foster parents for a year in Roxana, Illinois. Other times I think it's the Brodsky's house, another house they own but don't live in. There's always this awareness that I'm not supposed to be there, that the owners are gone, but I'm so drawn to explore it that nothing can tear me away.
This time I climbed so many stairs it felt like 7 stories. I found myself on a small landing with three doors. I opened the one straight in front of me and found a tiny room with a round window. I looked outside and the people looked incredibly small. I went back out onto the landing and opened another door. A broom closet with old oak flooring. Smelled musty. Nothing to see here. I opened the third door and found a nest of birds squawking loudly. Baby birds were chirping and crying and the mother bird was screaming loudly at me. "Not going to hurt you, chill!" I whispered to the bird. The screaming got louder. I shut the door and left them alone.
This must be the very top of the house. I hear a door closing downstairs and muffled voices. Someone's here. I have to get out. I creep as quietly as I can back down the stairs and search frantically for a door.
