An Empty House
The bug guy met me at our 'new' house today. I ended up spending about 3 1/2 hours in the house, and two of them I was completely alone.
It felt strange to be in our 'home', but not know where light switches were, to be very unfamiliar with the house. It won't be long til we'll know it inside out. I heard a noise and opened the front door to see the mailman buzzing by. He bypassed our house since nobody lives there right now, then whipped in front of the house next door. Soon he'll stop at our door with bills and magazines and junk mail.
I wonder who lives beside us. Will we like them? Will they like us? They have a dog, a corvette and are not really into yardwork. Hmmmmm.
A boy wearing a green t-shirt walked down the sidewalk, backpack slung over his shoulder. Strange to have kids walking down the sidewalk. Strange to have sidewalks. Strange to have professionally paved streets.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, imagined baking cookies. The counters with crockpots of chili and the sound of the TV, football announcers, Don in his recliner.
The office is empty right now, but I'll spend hours in there. Perhaps I'll finally write that book, sitting at the desk that we don't have yet. At the very least I hope to conquer the filing. Get caught up on the budget. Print out some photo books.
The garage and driveway are empty, but I see a basketball goal over the garage, and a driveway scattered with scooters and skateboards and hot wheels. A grill filling the backyard with the smell of hamburgers and a pool area filled with squeals and splashes.
Fourteen years ago, when the builders started working on this house, back in 1999, I was living in Pennsylvania, with two kids still at home. At that time, our oldest daughter lived very near this house we're about to move into, and if I could have driven by, knowing it would someday be our home, how that would have felt.
Yesterday I walked out to our boathouse to help unwrap the covers that are over the boat; I stood there for just a minute, looking out, and watched as a big fish jumped out of the water, coming down with a splash that left circles within circles. I'll never have fish jumping in my back yard again. I'll likely never hear donkeys braying a mile away, and have to watch for feral hogs as I walk the neighborhood. I won't scoot down the road to the mailbox on a golf cart, wind whipping through my hair.
A little more than a week of life at the lake, then we'll move. Everything in me is leaning toward the next house, the one in suburbia, but for just these few days I'm reminding myself - be fully present where you are.
It felt strange to be in our 'home', but not know where light switches were, to be very unfamiliar with the house. It won't be long til we'll know it inside out. I heard a noise and opened the front door to see the mailman buzzing by. He bypassed our house since nobody lives there right now, then whipped in front of the house next door. Soon he'll stop at our door with bills and magazines and junk mail.
I wonder who lives beside us. Will we like them? Will they like us? They have a dog, a corvette and are not really into yardwork. Hmmmmm.
A boy wearing a green t-shirt walked down the sidewalk, backpack slung over his shoulder. Strange to have kids walking down the sidewalk. Strange to have sidewalks. Strange to have professionally paved streets.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, imagined baking cookies. The counters with crockpots of chili and the sound of the TV, football announcers, Don in his recliner.
The office is empty right now, but I'll spend hours in there. Perhaps I'll finally write that book, sitting at the desk that we don't have yet. At the very least I hope to conquer the filing. Get caught up on the budget. Print out some photo books.
The garage and driveway are empty, but I see a basketball goal over the garage, and a driveway scattered with scooters and skateboards and hot wheels. A grill filling the backyard with the smell of hamburgers and a pool area filled with squeals and splashes.
Fourteen years ago, when the builders started working on this house, back in 1999, I was living in Pennsylvania, with two kids still at home. At that time, our oldest daughter lived very near this house we're about to move into, and if I could have driven by, knowing it would someday be our home, how that would have felt.
Yesterday I walked out to our boathouse to help unwrap the covers that are over the boat; I stood there for just a minute, looking out, and watched as a big fish jumped out of the water, coming down with a splash that left circles within circles. I'll never have fish jumping in my back yard again. I'll likely never hear donkeys braying a mile away, and have to watch for feral hogs as I walk the neighborhood. I won't scoot down the road to the mailbox on a golf cart, wind whipping through my hair.
A little more than a week of life at the lake, then we'll move. Everything in me is leaning toward the next house, the one in suburbia, but for just these few days I'm reminding myself - be fully present where you are.
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