The House at Silver Lake

A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Well. That's a bit morose for a Monday evening.

Not to be too terribly dramatic or melancholy about it all, but Leon and I thought we had our dream home in our sights—only to be thwarted. Long story, and it may still work out. Here’s to hoping this is a syrupy sweet story and not a rotten meat story. Yeesh.

I called the house the “Father of the Bride” house, and not only because it was this rambling colonial. But it had that whisper about it—"settle here and raise your kids and welcome them back when you’re old and grey". I'm a bit of a sucker for that whisper.

I’m trying to determine what has me so set on finding that particular house—“the” house as it were. I think it truly is wrapped up in that idea of rootedness, connection, and the allure of the familiar. I like those concepts, even as much as I love exploring new places, eating adventurous foods, and traveling to distant locations. It’s the knowledge that what is certain waits that makes the unknown so vast and compelling.