After we finished dinner tonight (this yummy spaghetti squash recipe), I thought about, for probably the 10th time today, how much I love our little house.
I loved it when I was child, passing by on trips to town, deeply curious about what it would be like to live in that little yellow cottage, right in the middle of town. I loved it as a teenager when I took photos of it that I deemed creative. I loved it on long walks with Ben in college when we would daydream about our someday life together. I love its creaky spot in the hallway, the way it holds on to the smell of garlic and bacon when we cook. I love the doors on the stairs, and the narrow, almost-too-steep steps to the two little bedrooms upstairs. I love that I know right where everything is, and I love that it feels friendly even on a rotten day. I love that my grandmother’s quilts have a place in the linen closet. I love the picture rails where we hung paintings of my daddy’s old hunting dog, Champ, an oil painting of Tony Soprano and his race horse, and a WWII Red Cross print in the same room and they seem to get along well. I love the little lamp in the kitchen that I hope makes overnight guests feel welcome to a midnight snack. I love the deep, deep porch that wraps around the corner to the French doors, and I love to eat unplanned, last minute dinners on that porch with my family in the springtime. I love the way you can smell clean laundry from the front door, and the way it comforts me after a long day, the moment I drop my bag on the landing. I love that Ben lives here. I love this house. I think I always will.