Paint speckles like reverse freckles along the edge of polished wood floor. You were in a hurry to just get it done and move in already. Now, not so much. You’re learning to slow, mark time. Pace yourself through the song of the chimes in the breeze off the pond and the creaking of the floorboards as he comes into the room you’ve long since tidied. A small act. Like scratching the pencil on the wall post in the kitchen where you check to make sure she isn’t on tiptoe, straining to be as tall as the brothers. Leaving other evidence of a love so great you can’t contain. The couch cushion sunk in on one side from all the middle-of-the-no-sleeping-nights when the third car never returned to its spot in the rutty driveway. You didn’t want to wake husband so peaceful by your side. So you abandoned the bed, settled into the sofa instead, and slipped your weary mind into the pages of Austen or Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Sliding bookmark in when you heard the tires crunch the gravel, your lids grew heavy as your heart grew light. You two built the house in eighteen months. Flawless when you moved in. (Except for the paint speckles.) But your home--the warm place that’s now pock-marked and warty; creaky, squeaky, and really quite uniquey--well, homes take longer than houses to build. To get them fairly well scuffed up and cozy, you and that house are always gonna be under construction.


Amy Nicholson writes at home. Her favorite place. Words housed at various places and