The house wants a family. It needs a fire lit in its fireplace down in its belly and up in its heart by the wide and wooden staircase. I hear it creak in places it probably shouldn't, the noise is the house asking for photographs to be hung in its blank hallways.
The house sees Christmas being strung on every other doorway and bush, the wreaths and the bows. But inside this house the women brush by each other just as brooms to webs.
In my room there is a Christmas. My heart glows for love coming my way. So... my hopeful eyes will light a warm inviting fire in this house and even as I leave I'll hum, mmmm, mmmmmm... and my song will fix a golden wreath on the door, and my smile will spin itself around porch posts, burst white like fireworks into tiny flickering lights reflecting on the icicles dripping lazily off the gutter's edges.
Christmas will come to this house. It will have a family. I live in this house, and my family lives in me.