In my dream, I am sitting on my sunny screen porch, shiny new netbook resting on my bare knees, with a cold glass of lemon-tea sitting beside me. I pause from my writing to look out the window, down to the shoreline below, where G and the girls are playing in the water. D’s laughter wafts up to me, interrupted (always, we are interrupted) by T’s tiny voice, insisting the details of some predictable, yet wholly gorgeous, tale of her experience.
Eventually, I’ll get up and move into the cottage to prepare a light supper, something delicious and well-crafted, but perfectly suited to be eaten in the summer’s evening’s sunlight.
I can see this place; I know this place. But it is not mine.
My place is a tiny cabin, literally falling apart at the seams, on a point where the sand gets washed away by the ever changing current, leaving a bed of clay and brown water.
Don’t misunderstand. I love our cottage. Or not. I love having a cottage, but maybe not ours. Or maybe.
Actually, if you were to look up ‘conflicted’ in the dictionary, you would probably find a picture of me standing beside the little blue cabin scratching my head. I love so many things about the place – the neighbours above all – and yet right now, it feels more like a burden than a pleasure. All work and no play and all that stuff.
We know now that we want to sell. I want to sell soon, hoping we can find somebody who will take it, before they discover all the problems. Or that they don’t see these things as problems. As hard as it is for me to comprehend, there are people out there who would love to have a place like ours, perched at the edge of miles and miles of navigable waters, where they can roar around in their big boats, blaring music and casting the odd fishing line over the side. As unfathomable as it might be to me, many people don’t require a clean, clear, perfect waters edge for swimming – in fact, some people never swim at all. Some people pay good money, and a lot of it, for simply a view of the water, and here we have 300 feet of shoreline to offer.
The thing is, the other place, the place that I think really could be a starring player in the reality of my dream, is available now. Providence is playing with us again; the cottage belongs to G’s cousin. And while that may not offer us a break on the price (in fact, it may make it harder to negotiate, not wanting to damage the fragile ties of family), we feel like there is a reason that place called to us, is still calling to us.
I’m not sure what we are supposed to do next, but I’ll keep dreaming the dream, so that I can be ready if ever this path leads us down the windy road to the red house on the lake of my reverie.