Today as I felt better but still a little weak-kneed, I let the fresh air into the staleness of my home. The wind blows mightily today but I don't care. It's warm. The kids are running about, mouths yelling and laughing, hair blowing and I relax at the sound of their fun.
For those that know my story, you'll know that I live in my childhood home. Not a lot of people can say that nowadays, eh? I trek out to the playhouse – a standing testament to my parents and grandparents love for me and my sister. An honest to goodness playhouse with a loft and windows and carpet and lights. We slept out there once or twice when I was little but mostly played dress up and had a little couch and pretend kitchen and windows to open and close and a cool place to play when friends came to visit. My friends that I've known awhile still comment on the playhouse: "I loved your playhouse!" "Is it still there?" "I would love to come over and see it!" (hopefully they really want to see me too)
Now the playhouse is a repository for old stuff. Furniture that is without a space. Old projects and books. Some dishes. Games and bikes and lots of junk. The boys have been going out there lately. It's funny how they don't want to call it the "playhouse" – they have dubbed it the "clubhouse" and have begged me to clean it out and spruce it up. They keep leaving the lights on and the doors open at night (something which irks Russell and me) and so today I went out to close it up once again.
Taking in the musty air, full of dead leaves and dust and spider webs (eek!) I realize it's a bit more cleaned out than I remembered and I considered my children who were laughing and playing just out the door.
Why have I put this off?
Why have I waited?
I do turn off the lights. I close the door. But not for good. I smile as I walk away, thinking of the fun summer ahead….