The art of living does not consist in preserving and clinging to a particular mode of happiness, but in allowing happiness to change its form without being disappointed by the change; happiness, like a child, must be allowed to grow up.  ~Charles L. Morgan

Back to the house on the lake…
So we have a house for sale. Who used to live there? Who will live there? What is it about that house that makes it lovely? Or scary? The root-cellar is damp and dark and smells of mold and rot and coolness that never sees sunshine. It holds old wooden crates, forgotten jars of peaches canned a long summer past, a broken stool, an antique melodian – huge and grand in its Edwardian carved legs and yellowed ivory keys. A lone window – the size of a bread box – is on the far wall. The faintest of brown light seeps through the dirty pane, having made its way through the grass labyrinth outside on the lawn to fall down into the dark cellar. The old round light switch, its 1920’s wiring running up the block wall near the door, makes a stout ‘click’ when flipped up. In response, a brave single light bulb, hanging precariously from the wooden beamed ceiling,  chases the lurking shadows to the corners and behind the melodian.  The bottle of merlot, stuck down here one afternoon a few weeks after that particularly lame birthday party sticks up out of a small wicker basket where it was placed during the frantic ‘oh-my-god-someones-here-to-look-at-the-house’ clean-up, reflects the lone light like a beacon of forgetfulness waiting to be followed. Its cool to the touch – the perfect temperature. Perhaps this space could be changed from root-cellar to wine-cellar without much extra cost?

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