Member-only story
Prose Poetry
The Home Within the House
I almost missed it
She saw something I didn’t. She saw the words within the walls. The words, like bricks, built stories. Stories that only time could tell. And time is what this home held.
The house was beautiful inside and out. Twenty-two years of care was evident in each drop of paint, each grain of hardwood flooring. The property was ageless — held in time by the love and affection of its dwellers. I wondered who they were. The house empty of possessions was not empty of presence. Something filled each space — overlooked by the naked eye, but glaring to the soul.
My wife saw what filled the spaces. I sensed it too, but my eyes were distracted by what else could be beyond this sacred place, what else awaited us out there — instead of what could be here. Discontentment has always been a persistent snake in my garden. I will crush its head, one day. For now, I have another set of eyes that see what I can’t
After the tour, I wrestled. I felt confined by the idea of settling when there was more time to search. There was more time to analyze and evaluate. Technology: a curse and a blessing. It offers the illusion of endless possibilities without warning that all possibilities must end for reality to begin.
