This lil stone cottage isn’t too far from my house.
In an area that’s comprised mostly of post-war housing with little variation, this little cottage and its plain white wood door stand out. Around here, any door without a storm or screen door stands out.
I apologize for the blur, but in my defense, the morning sun was unholy bright and Sadie was pulling me toward the squirrels.
Decades ago, in what seems like another lifetime, I delivered pizza to this house and got to see the inside. It was candlelit and cozy, with its stone hearth, stained glass windows, and choppy wood floors. There were books and plants in abundance. The cottage was so feminine and dreamy — throws and pillows and lace strewn about. I could only stare and “Wow.” I told the owner how much I loved it. She thanked me and told me she bought it after her divorce. She said it was her Divorced Woman’s Castle. She said she lived alone and she could do whatever she wanted.
I knew exactly what she meant, and I’ve never forgotten her home or her words. She was, for ten to fifteen minutes on a cold winter’s night, one of the warmest, most authentic, captivating women I ever encountered.
That other lifetime ago, and for many years after, the lawn was impeccably kept. Flowers and herbs surrounded the cottage, and potted plants spilled from every man made surface outside. Every time I drove by, I thought of her and wished her well. She left a real impression on me.
It’s still a lovely home, but there’s no sign of her there. No sign of her green thumb or her joie de vivre. She would never have chosen a plain white door, pretty as this one may be.
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