I learned that houses can rot. I
learned that such houses don’t
communicate but I didn’t want
to give up—love, passion,
a vestigial closet, a nail hole
in the dining room ceiling. I
thought of my mother canning
pears, an indelible roof repaired,
paintings in and out. I fell in
love with my hallway floor,
a chaos of colors. Every
bedroom wept and laughed so
loud on occasion. I canceled
dinner parties. The dining room
table thought how it is and how
it should be. Mourning married
me to the house. I wept roses,
birthday presents, antiques.
Weeks later, it was not the house
I wanted so much as a tiny
room, a dreamy girl, the secretary
desk full of happy excuses growing.
A blackout poem from John Updike’s novel Rabbit, Run
