The wind is blowing hard tonight. I hear the whistle of it in our little space. The walls keep us warm, but the rain and wind outside remind us of how thin they are.
I open the door and the lack of eaves leaves rain on my skin. Small waterfalls roll off the roof, leaving drops on my hair and glasses.
The girls run from their rooms to the family room, blankets trailing behind like capes. The floors shake, giving evidence to the space between the ground and our home.
The window rattles as the rain comes down. I make out the lights of a passing car, the foggy glass not giving away details.
I bundle up in my raincoat once again and go out back to the field, looking at the future. I am longing for it. Longing for windows I can open, floors that don’t shake, walls that are thick. I can barely see an outline. I see the warmth of the lights glowing from the inside.
I am ready to be there. I am ready to be settled.
I turn back and return to our home for the past two years, excited for what is to come, knowing it will be soon.
I am back inside, taking off my wet boots and coat.
And then I look at my children under the blankets on the sofa.
I see my large, furry friend asleep on the carpet, drying his coat from the outdoors.
I see my cup of tea, cooling on the table.
The candle flickers.
We are warm. The walls and roof keep us dry. No need to open the windows right now.
But we know now.
We know the difference.
Leaving the thick walls and solid floor behind to come to a space without.
A new appreciation for what we have has come to us. It has made the simple, the luxurious.
Unlock the window and it opens.
Walk outside to shelter from the rain under a covered porch.
A furnace that works, without worry that it may not turn on this time.
What a privilege to have built a home, to have built a life here.
Joe and I know. And the girls know.
And we are grateful.