A friend of mine and her husband reside in and are currently renovating a house that was previously owned and occupied by one of my all-time favorite authors and said friend invited me to check on the progress of the renovation after work tonight and while we were staring up at the structure from the brick steps out front I read aloud a brief but beautiful description of the house's facade which I found in a book penned by its former owner.
Out of habit, I approached the house from the sidewalk across the street, where I could see it in context: three narrow stories notched into the wooded slope. Its new cedar shingles were still too pallid for its dark green trim, but another season or two of rain would turn them into tarnished silver. I'd been eagerly awaiting that. I'd wanted the place to look ancestral, as if we had lived there forever.
Naturally, a hard spill into one of my "What is this life?" stupors followed.