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 in the mirror that I notice the changes. I go for months at a time without looking, without noticing the tiny cracks in the ceiling and the chinks in the plaster that need filling, then all of a sudden I realize the porch needs fixing, and the siding is weathered and gray.
When did we grow old? It certainly wasn’t yesterday or the day before or even last month. The last time I looked everything was fine, yet somewhere along the way, things began to crumble.
But you know what?
It’s still my home, it will always be my home, and I’m all right with that.