Yesterday, I brought Sully to a very special place. He's been there before, though just a small babe.
You open the charming wood and glass front door and walk up a rather steep staircase. At the top you find a wall painted a rich teal, inspired by a page in an old Anthropologie catalog. The dark iron switch plate is slightly crooked, as are most of the things in this space, for it is 116 years old.
At the top of the staircase you turn right and walk into the most beautiful open, airy living space. You see the home next door, pale yellow brick and vines running all along its sides, this way and that way.
I fondly recall the days that I lived there. In between the work of two jobs I loved, my time was mostly very quiet. Walking barefoot on the original red fir floors, the screen door to the balcony click clacking as a gentle warm summer breeze passed through. Thoughtfully planted pots of flowers on the front porch, back porch, balcony. Daydreaming while gazing through the windows, old liquid glass, trippy. Boots and Woody, my cats, sprawled out on sunny wide window sills. Friends on the balcony late into the night, stemless wine glasses scattered about, the smoke of cloves, lingering.
I was in to stainless steel shelving, all white ceramics, restoring old interiors, mastering tarts. I was beginning to think, and certainly at a time when it would've been possible, of growing a baby, growing myself more fully.
Yesterday, I looked at Sully and said, "Sully, Dad and I used to live here. Before Theo, before you."