This post comes to you during a break from a spring/summer/all moved in after 16 months cleaning session. We bought our home in February 2019, and today was the day that I unpacked our last box.
The house was built in 1912, and its wooden frame feels swollen with history, with life. It teems through the slightly crooked thresholds. In the morning, the sun pours into the south and east windows of the real center of any home built before 1960 – the kitchen. During the day, the summer heat is muffled by the long porches. My neighbor’s oak tree casts long shadows that shade the backyard from the sunset. At night, the weary floors sigh with relief, each floorboard creaking about what a great job they did, hosting our flight patterns as Noelle, Archie and I work, play, love, and live here all day.
I wonder if the house misses being alone during the day.
Yes, it has feelings. Shut up.