There are quiet morning moments when I look about my house and pout. I see the half-way finished projects, or the older carpets, the clothes the kids didn’t put away, the drought affected front yard or the dilapidated garage door. I despair a little. Then I walk a few feet, turn a corner and see the notches measuring how tall my ramblers are getting. I see dogs basking in the sun in spots where other past dog-friends made their own. I see the hand-chosen colour on the walls that she made me apply alone because the paint smell made her sick. As I move across the hallway I remember that fun night Nic and I (oh that’s a post for a different day).
There are perfect stories woven into the four corners of this imperfect home. It’s why we work so hard to keep it.
