I stand outside a humble house, the sun warming my back. I knock on the door and glance through the open window on the side. There is movement inside and a friendly face smiles out at me. I wave and ask to be let in. “I can’t wait to see what it’s like inside!” I say. “Ahh, there’s a difficult latch that’s been stuck for some time now. If you don’t mind waiting, it’ll just take a little time.”
x
I sit in a chair outside a humble house, my eyes drinking up the flat landscape spotted with cattle and hay bales. “It’s honestly so breathtakingly beautiful here,” I yell inside the window. “Who knew such beauty lay just an hour out of my grasp?” I’m looking at bright, blue eyes now, and I whisper, “who knew such beauty existed an hour away?” Fingers intertwined, a smile on both lips, I close my eyes and hear, “Thank you. I really enjoy the quiet out here. Plus, no traffic!” My heartbeat drowns out the gentle laughter.
x
I awaken on a Sunday at 7am and begin to get my things together. I poke my head out of the tent and look at the morning light caressing the world around me. The air is light, I can hear birds stirring and singing, and I am at peace. “Are you comfortable out there?” “As hard as I thought it would be, I am. Six months ago, I did consider heading back, but you showed me the glimpse of exquisite teamwork, the potential of absolute happiness, and it got harder to leave.” “I’m sorry it’s taking so long to unlatch this door. It’s really stuck.” “Would you like some help? Maybe I could reach through this window?” “Would you like some food? I’m famished.”
x
I knock on the window now. It’s been shut for some time, as if the owner of the humble house was preparing for a hurricane. “I’m here to help you,” I whisper through the crack. I feel ridiculous looking through the crack between the window panes, but I see a pair of hands trying to pull the window open. “I don’t know when this shut, I’m sorry to leave you out there.” Blue eyes meet brown and I recite, “I can’t think of any greater happiness that to be with you all the time, without interruptions, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world there’s no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.1”
Fingers intertwined, a smile on both lips, we embrace through the open window. I shiver in the wind and get pulled closer. The smell inside the humble house is soothing, and I am overjoyed to have experienced it. “You have been inside my humble house”, I say, pointing to the cottage by the river. “You have your own room there. I cannot wait till I can walk your halls with you.” I am kissed on the forehead. I sit on the windowsill, utterly loved and beaming with joy. I close my eyes. I listen to a velvet voice singing and imagine.
x
I sit alone outside a humble home. “What if you came outside and joined me here?” A second chair is passed through the open window. Fingers intertwined, smiles on both lips, we sigh contentedly together. I feel the warmth of love envelope me as we pull each other closer. I wonder what words I could write to do justice to this feeling. A tear rolls down my cheek and I am asked, “What’s this? Are you in pain out here?” I shake my head and with a smile on my lips, “I wish you had room inside for me. I know that’ll take some time and I am working on developing my patience. Maybe, I could help you unlatch the door and let some light inside. I know that it is harder to do that by yourself.” I am kissed on the forehead. “Thank you for your patience and support. But I’m not sure how to let you in. Perhaps what I need is time.” The second chair is passed through the open window.
x
I awaken on a Saturday at 6am and begin to separate memories into piles. I fold each memory, caressing each one, the good and the bad, with as much care and love as I am able to create. I tidy around me, fluttering about a small space, fussing over the cleanliness of an already clean corner. I am gently led inside the humble house, through the window. “You can see the latch, you can see how stuck it is.” I can see the latch and it is stuck. I give it a gentle tug, expecting it to slide like my own does, but it doesn’t budge. I step closer and inspect the rust. I scratch at it. I give it another gentle tug, it moves a centimeter, and comes to a stop. I frown at the stubborn latch but I’m glad to have touched it.
“We can try again later. We can get this door opened and let some light in!” “I’m not so sure. I’m sorry you have been waiting outside all this time. You can see the state that my humble house is in.” I follow the motion of hands and examine my surroundings. It smells of a deep musk, like an old library book or the smell of the earth after rain, of petrichor. The sunlight streaming through drawn curtains light up dust against stacks of boxes. “Oh! Have you been through those?” I take a step towards the boxes but arms wrap around my waist and pull me closer. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have been so unhappy outside all this time.” I remember the serene happiness of sitting on the windowsill, eyes closed, listening to a velvet voice singing and I say, “That is untrue, I am content on the windowsill. I know the latch will take some time. I have learnt patience.”
Fingers intertwined, I am led through the halls at terrific speed. “I need to shut my windows and work on these rooms by myself. I cannot accept your help.” We pass by a room with my name on it. It is lovingly put together with comfort and books and yellow light. It stands out against all the dust. “When did you put that together for me? Can we look in there? Could I stay there a while?” I am ushered away. We are back at the window and I am kissed with fervent passion.
Blue eyes brim over and those lips part and say, “I’m sorry I have to let you go.” “You had a room made for me, you let me sit on the windowsill, you joined me outside, and you have lived in my own humble house.” “Yes, and I’m sorry I have to let you go.” I gather my things and my memories in my arms, and start back down the path.
“You can shut your windows and do what you must, but you can join me in my humble house later, if you wish.” “I am sorry to have to let you go.”
xxx
My own humble cottage by the river smells of white lilies and roses. My key sticks in the lock, and for a panicked moment, I am afraid I will not be able to let myself in. But then my door unlatches, and I am greeted by familiarity and comfort. I sit at the desk, I weep, and I write. I weep and I write and I wonder about my loss. I crumple into a heap in a familiar room as I go through the memories. I mourn my loss, the bright potential, the exquisite happiness felt so deeply. I write my words all over the memories, marking them with prayer and love, out of reverence for days past. I weep and I write and I wonder if my words will heal me. I write these words and I wonder if I am allowed them. “Am I allowed these thoughts? Can I say them outloud?” I whisper to the wind to ask on my behalf but I can see the windows are shut. I know no wind or whisper can get through.
x
I awaken on a Sunday at 7am to a familiar sound and unfamiliar feeling. I collect my favorite memories off the shelf. Under the morning light, the sun warming my back, I tenderly plant the memories in my garden. I look forward to seeing the fruits of my labour. A smile on my lips, I turn to look at the humble house just an hour away. I close my eyes and I imagine myself on the windowsill. I hear a voice say, “If the feeling was true, it will return. And can you imagine just how happy that reunion would be?” I step inside the threshold of my home. I hang up my coat and put away my muddy boots. I wink at the glimpses of the past around me and say: