Sometimes in the evening I walk through the neighborhood and wonder about each of the houses. What dramas they contain, what yearnings.
So many moments live in a house:
The pleasure of a home cooked meal. The bliss of a child sleeping. The peace found in a good book on a rainy Sunday.
As dwellers in our homes, we often fail to appreciate the cocoon of wood and drywall around us. At the end of the day we walk in the door exhausted and don’t notice how pillowy soft our landing—how warm the embrace of home really is.
Houses are not buildings. They are whole worlds.