The way to the Ryan Mansion is a paved pathway that curves around the garden, under giant firs.
Crows & wrens fly above, obsessively going from the Belvedere to the wind-shaken tree tops. They watch, until the grand door is reached.
The doorbell is low, and to the side: a perfect knob whose filigree seems to emerge from the sweetly eroded wood of the door frame.
Stand a moment before the stairs: a rose carpet bag lies close to the door, packed for a journey —not too far away from someone's top hat & gloves.
A glimpse to either side, before climbing the steps: the gleam of dormant silverware heralds the dining room's location.
The profusely decorated parlor, to the opposite side, is filled with the promise of games, music, and late night murmurs...
The bed-room is a world apart. The pines are now at eye level; verdant light spills in, distorted through lace & antique glass.
We could play with a doll someone set down by the fireplace...
We could complete the letter left unfinished 130 years ago...
There is so much to take in, and strength to be regained!
It is best for now to leave the dust of the road behind, and rest in the high bed, canopied.