Dian Duchin Reed
I open the door to a woman who tells me her best friend lived in this house 45 years ago. She takes and forwards photos so her friend can see what it looks like now, without the two trees in front—a sycamore and a redwood—planted to commemorate the births of the friend’s two children.
It’s without the two trees because the massive sycamore kept trying to break into the sewer pipe, and the redwood, which had grown to 98 feet tall, dropped a branch right through the roof. Before I can apologize for their absence, the woman at my door says she likes the house much better now, so open and sunny, with the front yard abuzz with bees on flowers and its curving wooden walkway.
Really, it’s a cottage, with a bedroom that used to be its garage. It’s small, on a small lot, with only two closets and the original kitchen sink, cabinets, and counters. The woman at my door calls it a “happy house.” It is.
the new rose
a day moon’s smile