Before I fell asleep last night. I visited my grandparents’ farmhouse. In that hazy underwater state. That comes just before sleep. I remembered. The lace curtains. The very steep stairs that I was forbidden to climb. The pump organ. That was sometimes attached. To a vacuum. In reverse. Which made it impossible. To hear the clear tones. Coming from one’s fingers. The kitchen where I was served packaged cookies and Koolaid. And the match holder on the wall, which always fascinated me. And I wondered. If this creaky farmhouse in Indiana. Still stands. And how many. Of these lovely old friends. Ancient, worn and wonderful. Still exist.