There is a little house in the woods, on the side of the mountain, that has been waiting, just for us.
It is not too little, but it's also not too big. It's neither old or new. It's not perfect and ready to go, but it's also not, ahem, quite the dump that our last house was when we bought it.
If someone had asked me what kind of house I wanted to buy, I would not have described this house. And yet...
It's perfect. When we went to look at houses here, we sped through most of what was for sale, knowing instantly that they weren't right, and then we drove down a hidden driveway through the trees and saw a half shingled house tucked into a sea of green, and we knew. All of us. We knew.
Our realtor hadn't even seen it, which seems improbable, even impossible, given the fact that it's been on the market for two years and there are very few houses for sale here. But I guess it was just waiting for us. It knew better than we did, or at least than I did, about what we needed. A desk nestled into the kitchen, a wood stove in the living room, a room that can only be reached by ladder-just the thing for an almost ten year old boy.
There are plenty of things that need doing on this house. Walls that need to be painted, carpet that needs tearing up, a little cottage by the brook that will, with some work, be an excellent work space for me, and also a guest house for our friends. A garden needs to be planned and built, a deck needs railings that you can't fall through. But even with the work that needs doing, maybe because of the work that needs doing, we love it. There are river rocks set into the chimney and windows that look out onto nothing but green and a workshop for Will. There is a convergence of four brooks that all meet at the perfect spot for a fort. There is a fairy house.
And at last. We are home.