by Emma Deimling
dry white wine
The farmhouse had been beautiful once: all long wooden beams furnished with deep reds deep enough to drown out the fall leaves scattered in the nooks and crannies of the farm’s roof. The roof itself blushed with the most innocent of green paint, such protruding a color that it almost apologized for being uncouth in its shade.
Annalise had always loved her farmhouse; she had told her mother once that she never wanted to leave. She couldn’t get enough of its sturdy walls that leaned a little too far to the left, the open windows so open that they invited you to peek over the thoughtfully chosen furniture and hardwood floors polished from the wear of socks slipping about the hallways.
One window in particular, its gossamer drapes tucked away from the glass, begged you to peer in at the baby grand piano carefully displayed, the keys turned towards the outside so that anyone who perchance passed by would look on the player touching the keys.
The farmhouse had been beautiful once. But the drapes were shut now, the ghosts of shadows the only indication of life within its walls. The piano was gone—it wasn’t like there was anyone left to play it.
The green roof was no more green but gray and sallow—all the life drained out of it from the years of spitting rains and battering snows. The deep red was no longer deep but shallow and pink like the edges of scars marring over pale skin. The walls of the farmhouse that had leaned so sturdily had tilted a little too far left—the whole structure on constant vigilance against the threat of falling over entirely.
Annalise had always loved her farmhouse; she had told her mother that she never wanted to leave—and so her mother had acquiesced to her wishes and had a little unassuming gravestone placed before the window that had looked in on the piano.
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