The House

                                                                                                                        September 15, 1993

            I’m beginning to see when I’m in my house, I feel that I must work. It’s not a place of relaxation. I’ve joked about being a “prisoner of the house.” When I try to leave, the house breaks down. It hurts and needs me. It cries out, “He’s trying to get out, clog up, pipe, rot, step, break, anything, break so he’ll have to stay.” Here, I can read. Here I can just sit.