There’s a drop shuffle shuffle off the steps from the den to the kitchen. A natural rhythm lies here – and a smooth glide, especially if you’re wearing socks. There are seven shuffle-slide steps through the dining area. You can time it to two bars of most any music.

To your right is the creaky pantry cabinet with double doors. If you prefer, straight ahead is the whoosh of the refrigerator door, a tattle-tale sound in both the opening and the closing.

Leftovers are drop shuffle shuffle sliiiide whoosh.

Snacks are the same drop, glide, and slide ending with a double creak of the squeak of double doors in (nearly) original hardware. The real-deal handles and hinges are found in the laundry room and outside storage area. Vintage 1963.

This is Amhurst Road – a.k.a. Amhurst Street or Amherst Drive. Call it anything you like. For decades the city forgot us, our potholes and changing road name legend. As of 2012, this strip of real estate is annexed. It’s official now, complete with city services.

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Like all living, breathing things, 6419 is distinct. It has a scent, a tone, and a soul.  It’s as real and meaning-filled as the day a dull aluminum mailbox on dirt road was first labeled in small black letters “Route 3, Box 137.” Same substance, different number.

This place is hopeful, grateful, and grounded. It doesn’t need to boast or toast or roast or even host. It’s come as you are, be as long as you like. It’s a smile, a nod, or a hand shake. Hugs are not required, and always welcomed.

Like life, there’s good and bad, happy, glad, and sad. The sun rises on the den and sets on the front rooms. The whole world happens here. You can be pissed off and elated in the same day; it’s all valid. Rain, wind, and sun will visit, along with the occasional pelting of hail or sleet and, when you’re lucky, the soft relief of snow

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The bedrooms’ wood-floor pores are filled with little-girl giggles and random fibers of lacy socks and patterned tights. Footprints once adorned the walls in a line just above the twin beds of sister roommates whose long hair fell backward toward the floor during twilight talking sessions as the baby cried in the next room. Layers of pastel paint cover the place small toes left DNA and back-yard dirt for future reference.

“Girls, go to sleep!” The admonition still rests behind the sheetrock.

The best room by far is the front porch, its premier seat the two front steps. If you sit there with your morning cereal and a newspaper, robins and cardinals call. They speak in bursts of song to brighten the complaints of crows that gather to the south. The dark plaintiffs share the news of each thing they have observed from their high perch, the default neighborhood watch. Lizards scurry about in summer, and a family of birds nests above a left-side column.

When the power goes out, report to the porch! With commercial lights hushed, there are shy stars that peek about and seek to be known. Patience is rewarded with the passing of a lone satellite or shooting star. Make a wish, and keep it secret.

This moment was made just for you

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This is your place now – our house turned your home.

Sometime or other, sooner than later, you’re going to waltz right into the laundry room – shuffle, shuffle, slide – and hit your head on the upper cabinet. It’s required. You’ll leave a door open and stand into the most hell-raising pain you ever felt. You’ll curse and swear and toss that laundry basket you’re carrying. Tears will rise to the corners of your stunned eyes.

On this day, throw that basket as hard as you can. There’s no satisfaction to be found in slamming the laundry-room door. We’ve tried. So have your day, your way. Let the shout out. Let it fly.

Always remember the home is not the house – the settled walls, creaky floors, and defective laundry-room door. This place you reside is the shell inside which your memories are birthed and nurtured. The shell is not the meaning.

Home is the anticipation of a birthday surprise. It’s the warmth and goosebumps that gift wrap the memories. Home is the feeling of embrace. It’s the grace of making up and the respect to grant each other space. It’s the thing that can never be taken, no matter your situation.  Home is substance over shine. Every.single.time.

Lean into it. Stay here and now in each moment you can.

Live in the living room.

Dance in the kitchen.

Sing in every space and create your own shuffle-slide tune.

Plant a garden. Climb a tree.

Eat the whole piece of pie. It’s okay. Whatever happens, it–will–all–be–okay.

Ride the waves, but don’t be swallowed up by them. Easy and hard roll around like seasons or tides. Nothing very good or very bad lasts very long. Hang in there for the mundane, the ordinary, the forgettable.

Look up, and also look down. The tiny purple and yellow flowers in the back yard are there for the noticing, smiling for your attention. There’s a four-leaf clover waiting to be found.

A miracle lies in every wrinkle. There’s always a reason to be grateful – to be honest, a hundred sit within reach at all times.

We wish you love and light.

Each thing you do here will be just right. Your changes, decor, and even your fights. This place was meant for you. We didn’t know before, but it’s clear from here. The universe is sneaky like that. Remember this lesson the next time life seems unfair or doesn’t make sense. The universe will work it out, in her time.

You, dear buyers, are the miracle for which we waited. You’re the salve for a loss we didn’t expect, an eternal mourning with no fix. You make it gentler, somehow bearable.

May the number eight serve you well. May it be worth the wait and the disappointment of seven homes lost to other buyers in an impossible market.

You made it. You found us, and we found you. May your new rootedness be the first of many gifts that await.

From the grown girls of 6419 – thank you for truly wanting this place, for loving it already.

Welcome home.

© Mitzi Viola, 2/9/19