What is a house?
Is it brick and mortar, or something more? Is it four walls and a roof, or the combinations of all the people who have lived in it, its history and ours weaving together so that just as this house becomes a part of our stories we become another chapter for it?
I inherited this house from my grandmother. This is the house she grew up in, the house that must have seen many children before her. It’s rundown now, but her stories have this house as a place of life. When my lovely fiancée Mackenzie and I got engaged, we decided to move here. To start our new life together here, along with the next generation.
We converted the children’s room back to a nursery, and the spare room into a temporary office where Mackenzie can work. She’s an incredible woman- before she ever met me, she already had a startup computer company. If I ever find out that any sort of god exists, I will thank him or her for putting Mackenzie in my path.
As for myself, I’ve taken up woodworking. I’ve always wanted to work with my hands, and if we’re going to get this house fixed up, we’re going to need to know our way around hammers and nails.
I wonder what the house thinks of us? Us strangers, us newcomers? Are we interlopers to the house?
What does the house feel?