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I should tell you that I’ve been undressing your house with my eyes.

The screened in porches, the old brick pathways through your garden, the latticework of fire escapes. Sometimes I don’t care for your color choices, and I redress you like a fussy mother. Sometimes there is a mildewing couch in your yard, a pile of old toys near the garage, someone’s abandoned boat/television/motorcycle/stash of plywood where there could be a hammock. You’ve used different siding on that addition. You’ve embedded a mosaic of Jesus Christ below your bedroom window.

But many times — too often to count, really — you’ve done everything perfectly. Paint is peeling where paint should peel, there is a grill in the corner, the sound of a drummer in your basement, an explosion of wildflowers leading to your beautiful storm door.

I’m envisioning where I would keep my toothbrush. I’m thinking of the closest thai restaurant and convenience store. Five minutes from now I’m moving in.

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 5th, 2008 at 9:12 pm and is filed under A Place. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.