I’ve seen a little house, a dear little house. Enclosed, it is, within high green fences and secured by a green gate; it is hidden from the world, a secluded haven. It has a luscious patch of garden and a small bed of strawberries; paving stones, just a few, lead to a summerhouse; trees and bushes enclose the garden from nosiness.
This is not the house I write about, though it does look like a larger version of the garden’s summerhouse. I just wanted to show an image of small, cosy living space.
Two up, two down, is this house (with a bathroom as well) – and in my area.
I have now visited it twice – and, each time, it has folded itself a bit more tightly into my heart and soul.
The practicalities are formidable – but may not be impossible.
But this small abode has my name written all over it. I felt at home there immediately and am filled with happiness when I think of it. Even before I saw it for the first time, I had a vision of sitting in the garden, with friends and family, relaxed and at peace and laughing and safe.
It represents more than a house to me. It has become a symbol of hope; a sign that there is life after divorce; that there will be a safe and secure space for me somewhere – and a sign that, for all the misery of one phase ending, there will also be a new beginning.
Dear little house. Maybe you will be mine one day!