It's a beautiful, old house. But, it's not been perfectly maintained over it's many decades. The paint is pealing on the shutters. The brick front steps need cement.
Overall, it's a solid house, if not a little ragged looking on the outside.
I can see through the big front window. Inside, there's a large group of people, and they're mingling and talking with each other.
Some are doing things: Cooking and baking and crafting and sewing. A few have glasses of beer or wine or whiskey.
All of their tasks seem to be slowly turning the ragged feel of the house into one of warmth.
While they seem happy, the people inside also seem stressed. You can see the worry lines on a few of their faces.
However, the front door is open, and while a few people glance at that door, no one walks toward it. It might be tough sometimes, but it seems like everyone inside the old house is working together.
And I'm outside, looking in, describing what's happening, but feeling like I'm not doing a very good job of it.
I want to be inside, doing work, being part of making the house warm.
But like it's been for almost all of my life, my place is outside. Looking in.
And so I keep looking.
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