I’ve been dreaming of home, of place. I’ve been seeing home everywhere, in the creature carved into the shelf, in the stained glass I got at the thrift store, at the witch’s house (“The Castle” my kids called it) in Sculpture in the Wild.
My home is wherever my family is, that’s where I want to be. But my house? My house is a twenty year old double-wide, the sort of thing I was raised to look down upon but have found in truth to be quite to my liking. The roof is solid, the double-paned windows keep the below freezing temperatures at bay, and the unknown finish on the countertops is completely impervious to my rough treatment. It’s kind of perfect for me, a person who is the reason I can’t have nice things.
Still.
I dream of built-in’s, of bookcases that stretch ceiling to floor with pockets of art peaking out here and there. I dream of enormous windows to let in the light and the view. I dream of hardwood floors that don’t contain the stampeding herd of bison that is my children nor allergens. I dream of a kitchen where the food makes itself and it’s always edible…but perhaps that takes the dream too far.
For now, I live in the cookie-cutter house and dream of the day our house reflects our lives in a different way, a natural way, a custom way.
Sunday Dutro, Author - Official Site 