My house is blue. The fence is white. The oak tree is broad and sheltering. The porch swing moves in the afternoon breeze. On good evenings I sit on it and read until the light goes soft, and then I sit without reading and watch the street. A neighbor waves and I wave back. A child rides by on a bicycle and shouts hello. The windows behind me glow gold. The rooms are full of the particular silence of a place that belongs to you and has been earned in full.
I know now what it means to be the person holding the key.
THE END
