I set my paintbrush down for a moment this morning and took in the breeze. There is a soft one off the inlet today, helping to take the edge off the heat. The heat, too, is a bit more gentle today. I feel the need to hydrate just a tad less than I did yesterday at this time.
I stood on the porch and looked around, took in the boats in the marina, the Olympics off in the distance, the clock tower before me. What I love the most about the view is the outrageousness of the angles, the wackiness of the shading as the day progresses. I love the color changes to the water, the way the sun plays with the tides. I look at that view from my porch and know that it will be the singular thing I will take with me whereever I go. It won't matter much if I live in some small town or a big burg. It won't matter if the house is small or if it's a condo or a new place in a subdivision. I will close my eyes and still be able to look across the water and tell you, if you asked me, how that scene looked according to the season or the time of day.
I sat down in the living room afterwards and it hit noon. At first all I could hear was the tinkling of the chimes on the porch, then I heard two toots from the Horluck ferry down at the waterfront as it prepared to leave, then heard the tones from the clock tower start up. The tunes haven't been as varied as they once were, but those old showstoppers, those old Broadway and Tin Pan Alley favorites have become my own special Port Orchard soundtrack, and have been tattooed onto my aural soul for life.
Once that wee concert was finished I took myself outside to finish up my clematis work. It's rambling over the wall of the house now, just like the English Ivy, and has taken to climbing roofs as well. I've stripped both those plants of there adventurous tendrils, and will miss their annual struggle to take over the house. Mostly I will miss that spectacular bit of blooming in the spring, not only of the clematis but of the Oriental Pear and the Italian Plum and the ornamental Cherry. It was always one of my favorite scenes, stepping out of that back door to head to off work and be assailed by the scents and wild colors of blossums all about me. It was like snowfall sometimes, all those petals falling. Grand. And all for the sake of supplying my Estranged One with a bit of privacy.
This little house has been good to me. It's been a home for my children, a place for my friends to come and gather and sit and tell tales and partake of good food. It's been a place of refuge for family and erstwhile companions, a place to stand and take in the fireworks off of the sound and a home to come back to after long sorjourns and difficult journeys. It's been a home and there will be much to miss about it. But there it goes, it's been a home and my home will always be where I hang my hat.
I have been looking at houses in that faraway place and know that there are many that I could choose from if things go right. I look at the features and the "bones" of the place and know that there is yet another little house out there for me, a place to paint and chaulk and strip out old carpet. A place to sink nails and hang paintings and make altars. There is a place out there that I will be able to come back to after long ramblings and short trips. There is a place where my children will be able to gather and laugh and play in again. It is coming. And know that that place, when I shut my eyes and move onto to other things, I will remembered fondly, too.
There will always be something to miss no matter where I go.
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