It’s been a year since my husband and I first stepped foot on The Brambles. A year ago today our real estate agent didn’t want to show it, because it had a “funny floorplan” and was a little run down. We looked at it anyway. Ten minutes to go through the house, ten minutes more to stand in the yard, raincoats zipped against the April drizzle, to listen to the neighbor’s turkeys gobbling and say, “I like it here.”
And I still do.
Last night I dreamed that a real estate snafu had accidentally bought us a second, much larger, suburban house at the same time, and that we had to sell one of them–and The Brambles was the likelier seller. In my dream I wandered through the big suburban house with no yard, and I thought about the pleasant grassy pastures and trees at The Brambles, and I felt sick. The Brambles has the terroir of my soul, if that means anything. It felt like home as soon as I saw it. I like it here.