Three years ago Elizabeth and I bought a quiet house.
When we first walked in - though it was quiet and still - we could see a secret glimmer of happiness under the layers of quiet that bore down like worn carpet upon the long covered hard wood floors. The quiet wasn't a generational sadness, but rather a situational sadness.
I now realize that I was also harboring a quiet sadness. On the outside the house and I looked fine. Our siding was well kept and the roof colored to the perfect shade of brown - yet the inside kept secrets of long buried sad.
Yet now, I catch Elizabeth, me and the house humming with waves of joy and contentment. I spot Elizabeth dancing and singing her way from the dining room to the living room and back. I whistle, "You are my sunshine," while I am folding laundry. The house creaks and sings with each step that we ascend. I hear a slight inhale of breathy happiness from our home when the boys hit the purple walled foyer as the shoes are kicked off and jackets are thrown.
The house now smiles from the inside out. Just like me...
