The old house is still standing, the one from my childhood.
It’s much smaller than I remembered. Maybe because my eyes – and my belly – are so much bigger now. Too big for this old cape cod built for lazy summer days but later pressed into service for a year-round family. My favorite lookout spot, the dormers, are still firmly in place.
As I stand here, everything more easily comes into view. The uneven floors. The unfinished bedrooms. The mismatched doorknobs and broken countertops. The youthful energy that once bounced off of nearly every darkened corner of this place.
And every dream I ever dreamed was born here. Some many years ago forgotten. Some, by the grace of God, were buried here. In the back yard, along with the usual 1960’s assortment of small, lovable, non-cuddly creatures.
But what I better understand, looking back, is that it’s still altogether possible to cram infinite amounts of love and enchantment and wonder into an unforgivably finite space.
Even one that has always refused to hide its obsolescence and its poverty.
Image Credit: Pixabay