multitudes

Things I've seen since we moved into our new house:

1. A man carrying a Safeway bag full of limes on a Sunday morning. Bloody Mary garnishes? Key lime pie? Just likes lime?
   
2. On a weekday after work: an overweight man carrying a large pizza box and a six-pack of beer. Mmm. Beer.
3. A line of school children - kindergardeners, I'd guess - holding hands and following their teacher down the sidewalk on a sunny weekday morning. "Hiii," they waved. "Hiiii."
4. An alley in the light rain on a grey Sunday afternoon, lush old trees hanging down, old brick walls holding years of history.
5. A hospice worker wearing traditional African garb, pushing an old man in a wheelchair. I smiled, he smiled back, we exchanged pleasantries. "What is your name," he asked. "Amanda," I replied. He told me his name; I can't remember what it was. But I remember his eyes were clear and he was beaming.
   
6. George the dog walker with corn rows, stopping in front of our front steps to introduce himself. He told my husband, "You should come play basketball sometime." "I don't really play sports," my husband said, but in a friendly way.
   
7. Lots of cars with bumper stickers that say things like, "Worst President Ever" and "Bushit."
8. A man walking down the street singing.
9. A big woman wearing flipflops adorned with plastic fruit, and her little Yorkshire terrier.
10. An old man picking a dark pink flower from our garden.

Every day we're here, it feels a little more real. We've hit some key milestones on the path to making a house a home: we've watched The Simpsons; I've napped, and taken baths; he's fiddled with the computer. These things color in our lives; they make the house feel occupied, less like a toy and more like us. Like the difference between a theater before and after a performance: anticipation replaced by a thickness in the air, holding what came before.