Goodnight, Goodnight

When I picked Oliver up from school today, he told me about a book they read called "Goodnight, Goodnight, Construction Site."  I thought about this as I took a walk through my neighborhood this evening while the sun set. We built our house six years ago, and for a very long time we were mostly alone in our neighborhood.  But tonight I strolled through the streets that lined about 200 new houses, most of them new neighbors to us in the past two years. There are several new homes still being built, and I walked past diggers and backhoes that were eerily silent and still, paused mid-job at the end of the day's work. 


Though the loudest machines were silenced, the birds chirped incessantly well after the light diminished.  The birds are like me today, taking in every minute of fresh air they can get now that the trees are budding and the mittens are put away. The sidewalks unfolded just for me, as everyone had gone inside.  Images blinked on big-screen TVs, laundry detergent infused the air, and garage doors hummed closed. It was just me and the birds, breathing in the aromas of wood, wet grass from revived sprinklers, and clean air. I've been feeling a little closed-in lately, being spoiled for too long with the surroundings of corn fields and little green hills. The houses are closing in, our home's neighborhood is changing.


I've been thinking a lot about home lately. Tonight is the last time my parents will be sleeping in our home of 23 years.  The place that ushered me from a middle-schooler to an adult will be home to someone else now, someone who will not know where the secret root cellar is, why there is a patch of missing paint on the ceiling of the dining room, or that in the back garden, tulips will be coming up this month that were planted by my Grandpa before he died. No, those secrets will stay with me, a part of the house that I can have all to myself.


When my walk circled back around to my house, I brought Michael outside into the backyard.  It was dark now.  We climbed up onto the platform of the swingset and looked at the view from our backyard, a view that transforms every day.  But we are unchanging here in our home.  There were ducks and a beaver trailing V's in the pond, frogs prattling on to find their mates, and stars glittering.  One star was particularly bright tonight, the kind of star that you stare at for a good long while before you decide it isn't actually an airplane.  I pointed it out to Michael, and he replied, "and that star may not even exist anymore."  But for me, today, it does, vibrant and unchanging.