If you sweep a house, and tend its fires and fill its stove,
and there is love in you all the years you are doing this,
then you and the house are together, that house is yours.
I wish I could describe to you all how I feel about this old house. I try. I think of words, but then they all line up shout "crazy! You sound crazy!" when I say them out loud. My heart belongs to this old house, really. I know, with all strange certainty, that I belong here.
Such a ramshackle of a place, too. Look at her: missing chimney... chipped, discolored paint... cranky old windows, some painted shut. Don't forget that roof that needs re-roofing. Freeman House is... well, she's been neglected. But she still has the beautiful soul and bones of a fighter.
I forget how much I adore this place until I leave and come back. Sometimes I want to cry just pulling into the driveway. This morning, the old black-top drive was dark and damp and looked like someone pulled out a giant water color set and painted it. Morning rains had swirled yellow-green pollen with redbud blossoms and it looked... lovely. It was pretty. And the house seemed to sigh when I stepped off the pretty drive onto her steps. Oh good, I imagine her thinking. I haven't been forgotten.
It's unhealthy, isn't it, to hold so tightly to a place? Yet even while I know it is, I can't help it. And maybe I don't care. The house and I are together, it seems, and it is mine. I remind myself of this when I'm away, and rejoice in this when I come home....