I’ve gone camping, dearest house.


Your rooms will be empty of scamping feet of any size, your rafters empty of lilting Ella Fitzgaurd and Jamie Grace, and your beds with occupants.

The creek will be empty of stomping feet, white nets, and stick boats for racing.

The backyard will be without soccer games, a black and white dog, and water gun fights.

The garden will be without soft ungloved hands, bird seeds for the feeders, and dirty bare feet.


But it will only be a week, dear house.

Because you are home, and leaving longer than that would hurt.



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