I walk up the steps to the porch after a long, tired but glad to be home. The streets are quiet, the sounds of children are gone from the sidewalks. I notice once again the tall oaks lining the street and the way they arch and form a canopy.
The porch is inviting. I am tempted to drop everything and rock a while in one of the chairs that look out on the street.
But I go inside. The house is about 125 years old, built around the turn-of-the-century. It has a small entry hall with a coat stand and hat rack. Not that I have a hat or anything. To the left is the parlor, to the right the living room which I have turned into a study.
Soon a fire will be crackling in the fireplace. I will glance at the many shelves of books that I cherish, and select a few to read from after supper. I will put on some nice Mozart adagios to soothe and relax me.
Before much longer I have something on the stove cooking for supper. Music drifts in from the study. The old house feels good, secure and comfortable. There’s a very slight musty, antique smell which I like. Time worn. Generations have have come and gone in this house. It has character, personality. It has many stories to tell, I am sure.
After supper I settle in my recliner chair. The clock on the mantlepiece chimes the hour. I am lost in thought.
Night sinks deeper into the evening. Embers in the fireplace glow and still warm the room. I am alone in the house, as always. I relish the solitude. Soon, I fall asleep in my chair.