"Tread Lightly . . ."

I visited Smithfield, Virginia the other day. It was achingly beautiful. 

It was a wonderful discovery, and it was painful. It was like someone looked inside my head and saw all the latent unthought wishes and gave them physicality in the form of one small waterside town. It was so perfect it hurt.

I was so enraptured I didn't even get any good pictures of the storefronts, which were charming in their color and whimsy. I remember that one of them was subtitled "with a touch of grace."

There was a tea shop, lots of adorable antique stores, a shop delightfully named - get this - the Paisley Pig, and this quiet brick walkway. There were also many Victorian homes, one of which I promised I would buy as soon as I wrote a best-seller. This probably surprises no one, but I occasionally talk to houses. I'm especially prone to talking to ones that have lived long lives and seen eons pass. 

I know now what I want. I want a house in Smithfield with chickens and a front porch with a swing and fireplaces and a nice guest bedroom and the biggest dang kitchen you ever saw with so many windows I'll have to pay through the nose for heating come winter. I want to have breakfast with Daniel every Saturday at the Gourmet Bakery and Cafe, and I want to put down roots and grow. 

 And this. I want this. 

I want Home, or at least an earthly reflection of it. I want a home, one where I can have dinners and parties and invite over all types and manner of people to eat homemade guac and play rounds of Taboo. Fellowship is grace, and a home is the best venue for it. 

So if you'll excuse me, I need to go write that best-seller.  

Y