There is a house that rests at the edge of a village in the clouds. Everyone has one. That special place that makes you hope, makes you dream, makes you work harder. Somewhere that can evoke a heartbreaking sense of nostalgia even though you've never crossed the threshold, never tended the earth. This one is mine.
The drive from my parent's home to our own takes us through the mountains and right past this diamond in the rough. Maybe it sits empty, maybe not. It might not look much to anyone else but, to me, this place beckons me "home". You probably see an overgrown garden and a front yard cluttered with junk. You might wonder what kind of state the inside of the house is in, or prefer not to. You can just imagine all of the hard work and money needed for a big project like this.
I get it. I'm a realist. I see that too. But do you know what else I see, wonder, imagine? I see a tumbling shower of climbing roses, a blanket of snowdrops, proud poplars, rambling blackberry bushes and an apple tree waiting to be picked. I wonder whether the child on the backyard swing will have my grey eyes or my husband's curls. I imagine billowing white sheets on the clothes line, warm pies on the kitchen bench, fresh eggs from the coop and vegetables from the garden, afternoons spent together on the porch swing, evenings spent reading by the fire and happy, happy days.
A girl can dream, can't she?