After dinner tonight, I stepped out onto the back porch to escape our over-air-conditioned home (“the meat locker,” as I call it– Michael and I seem to be compatible in almost every way except for temperature) and feel the Minnesota summer’s eve humidity on my shoulders. I don’t often sit on our back deck alone at night. I should. As soon as I stepped out the door, I was overcome with a sense of peace and gratitude. I looked up at the stars and thought about my friends in far away places (don’t worry, I realize and fully embrace how cliché that sounds).
I sniffed our basil and mint plants. I turned around and peered through our kitchen window into our home. I looked past the pile of dishes in the sink, past the empty wine glasses and invention prototypes on the table until my gaze rested on the marble mid-century lamps we inherited from my parents. I thought about how most of the things in our home have a story behind them, like the Danish modern table we were given by friends of Michael’s Dad (a charming couple who made the trip out from New York to our wedding 3 years ago) and the canvas image we have on our living room wall, a photo Michael took in Aix-en-Provence last summer. This is my home. I hope it will be forever.
When did our house become a home? I knew I loved this house the first time I visited it, but it wasn’t a home to me. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t mine. For the first three or four months we lived here, it still wasn’t a home. Though I was excited, ecstatic to have our own space, I had a hard time settling in. As time went on, we started hosting dinner parties, BBQs, our first Thanksgiving. We started creating memories.
Friends who were having a rough time of it eating chocolate and sipping tea on our couch. Hilarious children inadvertently locking themselves in our bathroom (I’ve gotten good at picking locks with a paperclip). Lilac bushes going up in flames due to a BBQ mishap (no one was injured, just a few lilacs). Ruthless hearts tournaments with my family at our kitchen table. Our favorite people at our 4th of July picnics, laughing and chatting. These are the memories that filled my mind as I peered through the kitchen window this evening. Here’s to many more.