The house was yellow. It sat just up an incline, surrounded by tall oak trees. A rocking chair front porch hedged by azeleas that would bloom crimson and white in the spring. Carol, The Realtor, opened the box on the front door and stood aside to let me in. Directly in front of me was a wide staircase with a wooden banister. Turning to the left, I noticed that the carpets were faded and shabby, but the windows were tall and wide, with sunshine pouring in the south facing windows. I could imagine our Christmas tree, standing in the corner. Moving into the kitchen, I tried to picture our dishes in the dark brown cupboards, and wondered if I could paint them a clean white.
The Realtor trailed behind me, making comments about the neighborhood and the schools. She seemed oblivious to the 10 month old in my arms, our only child. The thought of buying this house, with it's attached school district and high school, made me feel like a kid pretending to be older than she was.
Running my hand over the banister, worn to a comfortable sheen, I wondered to myself "Is this our house?"
House hunting. What an experience. Trying on homes for size. Making a decision about the biggest purchase you'll ever make in less time than it took you to decide on and purchase a hair dryer at Target. And you don't just buy the house--you buy the neighbors next door, with their barking dog and tendency to throw their cat litter over the fence into your yard. You buy the noise of the bypass a mile away, and the former owner's preferences for trees and shrubs.
Note: I want to turn this into a story--I was just getting my thoughts out there, for tonight. I'm too tired, I'm afraid, to actually come up with a plot. I'll be working on it for tomorrow, though.