It’s a creaky, old house; low ceilings, uneven floors, not a speck of insulation, but I call it home. I will be here for many years, not because I have to, but because I want to. Not because I don’t have a choice, but because I do have a choice. It’s my place. I’m at peace with it.
The house, like me, is aging and hopefully, with grace. We’ve deteriorated with time. We sag and need a new coat of paint. Each summer it’s harder to trim the hedges and the lawn doesn’t get mowed. Upkeep is a struggle, and we’re not willing participants.
Every winter I huddle in front of the Dearborn furnace, probably original with the house, which cooks my skin while it’s on and requires a sweater when it’s off.
It’s hard growing old and yet so easy at the same time. It’s not until I look…
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