"... only when everything is in place does the door open." ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein Sometimes I envy those who can eat their soup straight down to the bottom of the bowl then sit, eyes closed, in an armchair to listen to music with absolutely no interruption. I look around the home we've made— though the grout constantly needs refreshing and one little appliance or another always trips the circuit, I can acknowledge it doesn't resemble the inside of a wrecked ocean liner. Often, I wish I could gather the surplus which we have also accumulated: dozens of socks and rain jackets, an assortment of small kitchen implements; clothes and tools and shoes that at one time must have been such a splendid idea, we had to have more than one of each. I think of this place before we opened the door and crossed the threshold—every gleaming floorboard and clear piece of tile, cornices like violin scrolls; the air in the rooms already singing of work and days. If you stood in the center, the years would tumble into your hands. And the only thing to do is open them.
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