A Dwelling.

The house was built in 1909.

When it is quiet I am entranced by wisps of light & poetry.

This is the story of a house & a home. Part of the story is mine. Yet I frame it tenderly, knowing it is their’s too.

Did they notice light rippling through these historic panes then as it does now, the people who once laughed & wept & made love here? Did walls shine gold when the fireplaces worked? What did they wear before air conditioning in this sultry land? 

I prefer musing over answers. I like to let my imagination wander through myth & memory & dream.

Tiny treasures– a delicate glass deer being chased by two cartoonish dogs, a kitschy painting with a ship that has sails made of cut Venetian blinds, a box of photos – these emit memories all fading with me. 

The portrait on the wall, my husband’s mother; the duct-taped boots, my son’s. 

Sometimes we laugh over recollections shared or argue that this happened or that. Our stories intersect & then veer away & merge again. We sit in rockers or the porch swing for the romance of it while struggling to be of one accord. Later we stand in the kitchen eating the lemon ice box pie we made together. It is tart & good.

Life together is so intricately complex & startlingly simple that I can’t explain a thing. Joy & grief, regret & possibility, tango together in my body. I love my family so deeply, it crushes me to think of their mortality or mine.

I dwell in the sweetness-of-now, even as a not-yet-grief faintly whispers this is all ephemeral.

The house is small & a thing of beauty–carved mantels above the hearths, wood & glass cut to form diamond-shaped panes on the window tops, heart-of-pine floors scuffed by heels & paws, & oak doors that aren’t close to square. It is also in constant need of mending. Just yesterday, my husband climbed a ladder to replace a soffit. Maybe the house is an obvious allegory to describe us all.

Through the camera, I attempt to honor this place, the people, the love, yearning, & dreams of my heart.

©Karen Bullock 2023

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