This Old House

I wonder if this house - our lovely and warm and kitty-filled home - will be Frankie's childhood house.

Last week when we were driving near a place I once lived I realized that that old white house on the hill, the one that cost less than most people's cars and endured this rowdy bunch for a short four years, was my childhood house. Somehow all of the best memories of my first twelve years have been transplanted there and every book I've read since has unfolded in that place with its wood stove, ceiling beams and winding drive.

Had we stayed for another year or two so much of the awe that is locked within those four walls would surely have dissipated. Maybe that's the trick: leaving these special spaces behind so that they remain forever greater in our imagination.

Whether we stay right here, sheltered by the towering birch in the backyard, or find the perfect little place perched on the coast, I hope Frankie one day feels the same sense of contentment and wonder when looking back on the places that we all passed through together.