I am stymied, without voice, uncertain as to what I want to say or how to say it. I have become too old, afraid of wrong choices, afraid of changing, afraid of lost time, afraid of a truncated future. Dreams are only for the young. That joy, passion, fearlessness has somehow spilled from my cupped hands. It seeps into the earth. I am inert. I call myself deliberate, born of a practical bent. but the truth is fear has clasped my heart, whispered failings in my ear. I am mired.
So I acknowledge this and lift one foot and then another, eyes closed, breath held, on and on until I am further along, a choice made in this golden season, this barely autumn of a life, foreign to me, unrecognizable. I must learn to love this creature I have become, realize there is time, future, dreams remaining. It is this that keeps me still, a dropped leaf on calm waters, peaceful, but without movement. And it is much more...
This 1917 home remains my mother's home beneath all my frippery. It was her heart, her dream, her future and my sisters and I were fortuitous growing and becoming in such an idyllic home. All those blessed moments of childhood, the good and the sometimes difficult, still resonates, still is remembered with such fondness that it is hard to say goodbye, to close and lock the door. My children have lived in this home as well. They have found comfort and love here and I am glad of that, but perhaps selfishly, I want it to be a home of my dreams, my heart, my future, my life. It is time...and I believe to everything there is a season.
I wish for my mother's home to become someone's dream, someone's future. Will it be you?
For Sale: The 1917 Home
Details and pictures to follow.