As home.
Traveling next week to a place I have never seen, on a far different shore. I’m going to look at a place and see if I can accomplish it.
The house.
The structure.
Another life.
It’s in a field. The first I saw of it, which was several years ago now, I came back and back to it. There is a romanticism to the landscape and a hardiness about who lives there. It might have ghosts. Certainly it might, given its age.
It could be green, and have a taproot that is mine.
What I like is that it’s pristine, and that it has struggled. In some ways I see that as a metaphor for my own life in the last decade. Already I see daffodils and roses, a white picket fence, pen and ink in washes.
Almost broken.
Unbroken.
It has ten rooms.
Already I see tulips, and the garden, and a fire in the hearth. Already I see the bath. I found it, the most beautiful tub.
I’m going to do it myself, as much of it as I can.
And everyone would say I was a fool, but I don’t think so.
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 