The girl moved into the darling little house in November. It was very much like the house she came from, the one she had saved. It needed so much work, and the few that even took notice of it couldn’t look past all the work to see it for the gem it was but the girl could. The darling little house had quirks but she was drawn to them because they were charming and all the quirks together made for great character. She often grumbled at the house’s disrepair and demands but she felt confident because she looked around and could see that most, if not all of the parts were there and all she had to do was dig them out and return them, refinish them, refurbish them. It was a warm November, warm enough still to have the windows open but all the windows, save one, were sealed shut in some way: nailed, painted, nailed and painted, and some refused to budge for the girl despite any restraints, presumably because they had just not been opened in so many years. Though needing open windows like she needs food and water and a dog, she tossed it off for the time being because winter was, after all, just around the corner. This winter was different, too; not only did she not dread its onset, she looked forward to being cocooned warm and safe in this darling little house with all of the new house projects that go into making a home.
In a few short weeks, the girl remembered what she had tossed off a month earlier and that was that most projects require an open window, somewhere; you have to be able to let bad air out; you have to be able to let good air in. You have to breathe.
By January there was a project every day - sometimes it was one of the ongoing projects, sometimes it was the kind of project that springs up when you least expect it and when you can least afford it. Slow leaks, sudden leaks. Explosions and eruptions of one kind or another, blown fuses. Skeletons in closets. Missing pieces and parts after all. A poor foundation lain long ago. Pests. Locked doors. Ghosts. Still, the girl thought of nothing but the house and she worked tirelessly on her home, and she did so with grace and gratitude. And she worked on the windows everyday.
March came and so did her birthday but she hardly had time to stop for celebration or to even reflect on all that had changed since the last birthday because the house demanded so much of her resources. She was still working on the windows, sometimes to the exclusion of other projects that desperately needed her attention, some said she was obsessed. She was making progress she would say, pointing out the windows she had wrestled open if only a few inches and the windows she had managed wide open but that would not stay open without full time support. But the girl was no fool, even she understood as she listened to herself justify her work to others that sometimes the worst thing for someone obsessed is some kind of headway.
So she took breaks, she would pack a bag and her dog and leave the house and all its projects, often mid project. She went back to where she had come from because there had been a home there too and it was the only other place she knew to go in the world. Each time she drove away it occurred to her how it had been easier to say goodbye to where she’d come from than it was to tell her darling little house that she would be right back and she always decided that was because she knew she could leave where she came from and it would be just fine. That house could weather the elements because she had built it back up so strong, piece by piece and when there was the slightest hint that a part was not strong enough she had ripped it out and started over; it could not be shaken, it would not succumb to neglect and decay, it would not burn or crumble to the ground, the surroundings could not claim it. A hundred years could pass and she could always go back to where she had come from. When she was away from the darling little house though, she couldn’t even feel sure that it would not disappear in her absence, that she wouldn’t come back to a patch of dusty dirt and weeds where she had left it standing. But that was silly because a house cannot simply disappear.
Spring arrived, the girl’s favorite time of year, the time of year that she spent the whole rest of the year dreaming about because some part of her is always stirred or reborn or returned as if she were one of the toads or a seed forgotten or a bird gone many months. She had worked all winter and most of the windows opened now but none of them would stay open on their own, each one precariously propped open and threatening to slam shut at the slightest upset. The girl had run out of props at some point too and didn’t know where to go to find any more so she had to hold them open her self and her arms were growing heavy. It was so much to reopen a window fallen shut that the girl would leave them open even if all hell was breaking loose beyond them. The girl was tired from her work and from holding windows open and from bad weather, and when she realized that even with the windows open that the house was no more ventilated than it had been before winter set in, she let herself fall into exhaustion, too tired even to go back to where she came from.
She slept and the girl woke up very angry, on the porch. She was angry at the windows for demanding so much of her. She was angry at its former occupants, those trusted to maintain and care for the darling little house but who let it fall into utter squalor. And the girl was angry at the house most of all. Her darling little house had from the start locked her out from time to time without warning, a quirk. She had not minded so much early on because it afforded her time to sit on the porch in the fresh air where she could lay her tools out in front of her and plan for the next task. But now too much of her stuff was in the house: her tools were in there, her food and water were in there, her blood, sweat and tears were locked inside the house, and her heart was in there, in a drawer, in a room.
