Her pine-blessed kitchen and cast iron
humbled me back to times I'd never even known.
Yet, Allison's house is nothing short of fantastically familiar.
Railroad creeks and moans, the same kind separating and baring my elders from a certain side of town, in her case,
inspired me to construct the mending of man--the kind needed to deconstruct any erections of separation rails may bring.
Allison's house spurs me to correct even more with each Santé Fe screech.
Purity Ring is truly her definition.
Not only does it fit her life-saving manner; but, it's also her encapsulating the sanctuary all writers dream of and envision.
Their "Lofticries" and laughs have and whatever internal gems they've chosen to share with mankind have found refuge, indeed.
For, t'was a place for us writers to truly immerse ourselves in element; t'was a place for us to let our most intimate thoughts manifest, without fear of judgment, and to let them unapologetically bleed.
I love the open space she left for me to write.
I love she left the relics of her sisters out of plain sight.
I love the time she said "nuts" out of a burn’s spite.
And, Allison's house taught me, most importantly,
when you don't have a safe space,
and forge a shrine where people have the freedom to keep it nice and tight.
May her house rise again, once more.
The same cast iron that burnt her was the one I used to cook the best potatoes and asparagus I ever roasted.
From the Soul,