Lyndover Place
Colette Love Hilliard
Lyndover Place
1 (legal) bedroom
1 (sunroom pretending to be a) bedroom
1 basement (that is definitely not a bedroom but will have to be a bedroom anyway) bedroom
1 bath
988 sqft
An historic residence built in 1928 to accommodate a much smaller family. Here you’ll learn words like egress and eviction, but not before you’ll fall in love with your first-ever dining room and French doors. Mom will serve crudités while the grandparents wait for the main course–beef burgundy with rice croquettes, and for dessert, a traditional English trifle. Her girls will orbit around her like the sun as she teaches them the proper way to set a table. This is the kind of dinner that requires cloth napkins and the fine bone china she’s been collecting from Treasure Aisles Antique Mall. After dinner, your father might retire to the basement where, after a few beers, he will fill the space with a secret love language that you never learned. If only you’d picked up a guitar. Because your bedroom is above ground, your sisters might start to develop a secret hatred for you; but don’t worry, you’ll only be here six weeks. There will be time for them to forget their (definitely not a bedroom) basement bedroom. When August arrives, you’ll try to register for school and find that the house is indeed too small for a family of five. You’ll say goodbye to the sunroom, the French doors, the dining table, and for the rest of your life, you’ll never fully unpack.
October 2025
Lyndover Place
2 bds, 1 ba, 988 sqft, built in 1928 Not enough space for a family of five, but it has our first dining room.
Inside there's a dining room and mom throws a dinner party, the first I can remember. It's beef burgundy with rice croquettes. I'm in charge of the jelly that tops the side dish. My sisters handle the thrifted bone china, cloth napkins, and flatware. We all learn there's a correct way to set the table.
The sunroom has French doors and a daybed. I claim it as my own. No more sharing with the girls. There are tidal waves of light, original hardwood floors, and a view of the fenced-in backyard. If they ever harbored a secret hatred for me, it probably started here.
They share a room in the basement. I don't even think they have a door. It's dark in my memory, but it's spacious. I think they have enough room to dance, or maybe I'm just trying to overcompensate for the guilt.
Somewhere down there is a jam room too, where poets become musicians after a few beers. My father's gentle voice combined with his six-string acoustic are a love language that we listened for. It's the best way to know him.
It's home for six weeks. I call it a summer home because that makes it sound like a second home, but really, 2 bds, 1 ba, 988 sqft is not enough space for a family of five, legally.
So we pack our boxes and leave the view, dining room, sunroom, and basement behind. It never really felt like home anyway.
January 2025
Lyndover Place
You need a closet to call
The place where you lay your head on the pillow a
Bedroom
And you need egress.
There were windows and a door
But if the house is on fire,
The two steps leading up to the
Door make it not a bedroom
So you call it a summer home when you're forced to move away
This was a summer home but not a second home
A yard with a fence and fireflies.
A six week stay in a house with a dining room
Where my mother served beef burgundy and rice croquettes for the grandparents in our first dining room and we walked to Mr. Wizards for ice cream on the 4th of July.
Where my sisters may have harbored a rightful resentment of my bedroom with the French doors.
December 2024
Process Statement
I started drafting “Lyndover Place” last December. I had already decided to write a poem for each of the places my sisters and I grew up, and I even convinced one of them to write with me. She and I titled our poems after the street names where we lived, and we didn’t share our versions until we were finished. And in case you’re wondering, yes, she did write about her “(definitely not a bedroom) basement bedroom.” This particular poem took me several months to write. I held many memories from the short time we lived on Lyndover, but I struggled to find a form that felt meaningful. Then one day, while researching the square footage of the house, it occurred to me that this poem was the perfect candidate for a real estate ad. After that, it came together quickly. Still, it’s hard for me to know when a piece is finished. I usually give it time and space before returning to see whether it’s truly complete. When I no longer feel the urge to tinker with it, I know it’s ready for the world.
Colette Love Hilliard is a writer and English teacher from St. Louis, MO. She is the author of two blackout poetry collections—A Wonderful Catastrophe and Celestial Timpani—and her work is featured or forthcoming in HAD, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere. Among other things, a photo of her dog can be found at colettelh.com.
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