Welcome, Summer.
There are houses in shambles.
Available, but only if you want to put in the work to revive them.
Their interiors are waterlogged, gored of details; wholly destroyed. Each step creaks with resignation, unfit for continued use. Nests are made in the attics, rafters, and other places of rare benefit, tended like a private zoo, occupants nourished by shadow visitors. Trash models atop grainy linoleum, piles of debris swept lazily in all directions from the center, a cause of spiritual ache for those with clean intentions.
What pass for lawns are the splendid gardens of wayward youth, in patches of brown and green often distinguished by inherent ugliness. These grounds create mazes with their abundance of overgrowth, plots situated in such a way for ghosts to navigate their uneven terrain. The spirit of craftsmanship has long since abandoned what remains. Weeds tangle, their predecessors dead beneath their roots. Moss thrives and ivy flourishes; the stretch of summer heat invites life in excess.
In need of TLC.
Sold as is.
A buyer’s opportunity.
An investment home.
I’ve been combing the listings for something precious. A dream house? Is it considered such if it’s my second choice? Third? Fiftieth?
We string our dreams together like garland on a Christmas tree, and we make silent wishes and prayers to whatever powers might be, and we ask for somewhere to go by the end of the year because we’re cramped and we’re tired and we’re really looking to feel better about all these little accomplishments we’ve made and having a home to showcase them would really solve most of our problems.
Amen.
Cheers, Kat