They walked down a path that led to the house by a lilac bush and a lamppost, where he’d buried his first cat. It was no longer their house anymore, it was their home, the new people who bought it. He drifted off, remembering that first house: the look of the light coming through the kitchen that overlooked the alley, the plumber’s little parking lot. The color of the wood floors, original, old wood. Wide floor boards. Coved ceilings, nice bright light. House plants, a patterned rug. This is where they’d started their family, when it was their home. He lay in bed drifting off to the sound of the kids in the driveway, they had just returned home. It was cold, coming on December, and they were still kids. And he was still young for a time too. He thought about running the generator to keep the battery from going, and thought about getting a tree. There was nothing but sun today. And all the life they had to live still, in their home.
Image by Albert Neuhuys, ‘A peasant family at lunch,’ 1895