Her Daughter's Eyes by Jessica Barksdale Inclan

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Powell's Books

Loving objects is a stupid pastime.  Objects disappear into seats and couches, fall out of cars, burn up in fires.  Objects crack, snap, break, rend, warp, disappear.  People do, too, but it's harder to lose a person than a nice pair of shoes.  Objects are things, things are not permanent, things aren't really even real, so I try to not love them as it's a futile business, this object love.

But I will tell you this:  I love my house.  I love the looking out my office window onto the just-blooming wisteria, the chickadees and juncos using the thicker branches as a highway to the bird feeder.  I love the sky above the wisteria, the cypress tree between the sky and me.  I love the kitchen that Michael designed, the smooth hardwood floors of the living room and dining room, the chair in the corner under the light that my mother gave us.  I love the backyard, the new stone paths that Darcy is making.  I love the sound around the house, the sound of not much.  I love the pitch of the roof, the angle of the sun into the living room in the afternoon, the two decks out back.

I have an all over mad crush on my house, and yet I know that one day, I could come home and it might be burned to the ground, an accident of electricity, careless match, or random lightening strike.  the earth could shake and tumble it all to the ground.  I could come home and it could be completely gone.  Both Michael and I could lose our jobs, and the bank could shake our hands off the house and take it back. 

But I love it still, this temporary shelter, this lovely place, this calm and quiet and perfect respite from everywhere else.

Jessica