This house is a flood of memory.
It smells like it always has: of pine needles and childhood. Everything is like I left it with games in the cupboard and vintage magazines on the top shelf of the bedroom closet. It is strange to be here alone, without snow clothes and sleds. The house seems smaller than it used to but that will be of course the gargantuanism of memory. This house is a constant, I have known it forever.
It all runs together. Sledding, air hockey, cross-country skiing (or not), the pond down the road, the three sisters, watching Field of Dreams, going through all of the 1970s seventeens, and always the smell of pine. I can’t tell a cohesive story about this place but that is its nature. Just a place to exist, not to incite change or dynamism. Somewhere to feel inherently connected, a responsibility to preserve rather than to create. Its perpetual familiarity is its importance, a reliable constant through inevitable change.