It’s the same old house to me, really, no matter what. I’ve only been here for a little over half a year, but even the slopey ceilings and bare brick walls started losing their effect on me a while ago, and now nothing about it is thrilling. I suppose it’s hard for thrill and comfort to cohabitate in one place for too long, and now it’s just become ‘home’ rather than anything else. It’s a place for me to be weary, and to watch teevee, and to cook dinner. But, this morning we were all in the kitchen having waffles, ice cream, or both, and Elise looked to her left and said “it’s colorful.”


Following her gaze my first thought was that she was just looking out the window at the siding of the house next to us, which is just about anything but colorful — no matter how sunny it might be on the outside. But, it wasn’t the window she was staring at, but its sill. Our kitchen windowsill has become our makeshift house wetbar, and even at its current low tide it’s a cross-sectioned rainbow of apple green Pucker, the deep blue bottles of Skyy and irish cream, and the too clear Smirnoff letting the sun fall right through it.

“Colorful?” I pondered it more than i asked it. I suppose even the most routine of comfortable things are still thrilling in the right light.


A half hour later Kat was framing up a picture of the shadows that our blinds cast against the curtains, with Elise coaching on what to leave out of the edge, and inside it felt like we had rewound back past spring to last summer, and the wonder i had in my eyes at this place when it was empty and unfinished.


I am enjoying all of the seasons i have collected, as much as i am enjoying the spring that has now officially arrived.