Shouldn't…but Do

My house is a standard split-level, not so big.  Looks like a lot of houses around here, nothing special to see.

With a few window frames to be replaced, my house has siding in need of power washing, and a driveway with a crack or two underway.  Carpet is bunching just a bit,  linoleum is tired.

My house is surrounded by a garden unlike any other in this burg.  Home to the wind and all that flies on it, hummingbirds,  monarch butterflies, a thousand flowers, and sometimes – if and unless careful, the Baba Yaga.

My house has a window etched with the crookedy script of  my son’s name, when he was six.  That and other windows are the same I looked out as I walked countless nights carrying my children when sick with croup, or just to see the moon.

My house is memory, and more is added to it every day, every season.

My house is mine.  I finally closed last night on refinancing that provides me the opportunity of paying  monthly until I am 81 years old. I am grateful.

My life has always wanted refuge, a place where doors close on the cold, and open to the warm – and temperature has nothing to do with it.

There was a parade of thunderstorms last night.  Lightening, rain, and sometimes a few stars illuminated my world  far into the night.  A perfect celebration.