There is an unbeaten path just down the lane, that winds along the bottom of our hill, leading past the most beautiful lonely house, up past our peaceful cemetary, then meandering back to the village. It's full of thorns, sticky bushes, and muddy puddles. At one point, the trail heads under a ceiling of branches, the leaves casting hues of green and yellow all around us. As we walked along, it felt as if we were miles from anywhere.
When we found ourselves leaving the trees, we realized we had arrived in the garden of the lonely house. This is a house we see everyday when we drive up the hill and into the village. It sits in a little hollow off the road and is similar in style and size to our home. Every fall, the lonely house is covered in flaming red vines. We could see, as we stood there, that the vines covered the windows and front door. Not neglected as much as forgotten. An air of sad peacefulness holds this house empty and quiet, out of time.
We manged to clamber through the overgrown bushes and thorns and follow the trail as it climbed past the cemetary. There are so many chrysanthemums resting on the tombs at this time of year. All shades and colours, giving a freshness to a place that one would expect to be grey and cold. There is life in the remembering.
Reaching our house as the light rain began, I gazed upon the dog houses tucked under our big tree, our old shutters folded into the window panes, and the mess of what were my tomato plants. The sight made me smile.
Our house, cluttered, noisy, and in a contant state of change, is beautiful. There is life in the living.